Chapter 1
Chapter 1 On Gu Sorcery
For folks of a certain age from Hunan and Guizhou province in the southwestern region of China, the workings of Gu are practically household knowledge. Even if you’re from farther off, you’ve likely caught wind of it from TV shows or dog-eared novels. Gu comes in many forms, but if we’re talking fame—or infamy—the Gu of Miao ethnic people takes the crown. Love Gu, Heart-Piercer Gu, Grudge Gu… they say once it’s cast on you, only the caster can lift the curse. Gu and poison are two sides of the same coin. And this isn’t just any poison; we’re talking venomous creatures: snakes, scorpions, centipedes, silkworms, wasps. There are stories about outsider men wandering into lands of Miao ethnic people, only to be enchanted by a maiden’s Gu and bound there for life. Just the word “Gu” is enough to make most people go pale.
The Dong ethnic people have their own version—Dong Gu. (My bet is, when Han Chinese call the Dong ethnic people “Donggulao,” it probably started as “Dong Gu Lao”—masters of Dong Gu.) Dong Gu is different: it leans more on curses and incantations. Out in Dong villages, you’ll often see belongings left in piles with no one watching over them, marked only by a simple knot of straw—a haoji, a warning sign. Passersby know better than to touch even a thread, because that haoji means the item has been “medicated”—spelled, cursed, ensnared by Gu. Disturb it, and you might fall gravely ill, lose your life, or bring endless trouble upon your family, with neither fowl nor hound knowing peace again. The way the straw is knotted isn’t random, either. An expert can tell at a glance which family or school of practice tied it. Even a clueless outsider knows that marker means “hands off.” So, Dong people rarely take what isn’t theirs—their honest, simple customs are one reason, but Gu is a powerful deterrent, too.
Straw Gu is the milder sort—mostly used to guard things or mark territory. It’s like a “keep out” sign: “I’m working here; fellow practitioners find another spot, everyone else stay clear.” It’s a warning, and if you trigger it, there’s usually a cure. But… if you’re ever out in Dong country and see a red cloth draped over a jar or tied around something—listen close. Do not let curiosity get the better of you. Don’t open it. Don’t even brush against it. That’s Red Gu, and it’s meant to harm.
Those who set Red Gu are usually trying to “send away” ghosts or evil influences—securing peace for their own family by passing the misfortune to someone else. Once caught in its trap, without a grand master to intervene, death is often the only way out. Casting Red Gu is a vile act, scorned even among practitioners. Those who use it rarely leave behind descendants; it’s mostly the work of those already without heirs.
Yang Gong was the most renowned Muru—a master—in all of Little Mountain Vale village. Within a hundred li, whether it was a minor rite like Water-Fetching, Deity-Pacifying, or a Firework Ceremony, or a major ritual like a Nuo Exorcism, Mountain Encirclement, or the deadly Blade-Mountain Walk—he handled them all with ease. More importantly, the Gu he cast, no one else could break. He was the undisputed Gu King of the region. Yet Yang Gong almost never used Red Gu, and when he did, it was usually to save a life. His mastery of the Daoist arts ran so deep that he freed many victims of Red Gu from its grip. So, not only did Yang Gong have heirs, his lineage flourished—his clan grew to over a hundred souls.
Yang Gong’s skill came to him in a strange way. They say when he was thirteen, a beggar came to the village. After the beggar left, Yang Gong vanished. His parents searched until their hearts ached, their tears long spent. He returned five years later, a tall, sturdy young man. Yang Gong never spoke of those missing years. Only in fragments, from whispers within the Yang family, did the story come out.
It turned out that young Yang Gong had been playing outside the village when he saw the beggar set a snare of hemp thread at the foot of the mountain. The beggar chanted an incantation, fingers knotted in a secret sign, then lay down to nap. Moments later, a pheasant scurried down the slope and right into the trap. The boy was mesmerized. He ran over, tugging at the beggar’s sleeve, begging to be taught. The beggar warned him, “This is crooked magic, dark arts. Learn it, and you’ll end up like me. Aren’t you afraid?”
Young Yang Gong shot back, “What’s crooked or straight? Use it for wicked ends, it’s wicked. Use it to mend what’s broken, it’s a healing art.”
The beggar stared, taken aback. He looked the boy over, then slowly nodded. “Your virtue runs deep. You’re fated for this path.” And just like that, he took the boy away. It was years before Yang Gong returned. And it was two years after that before anyone in Little Mountain Vale learned the quiet young man had become a master of the most feared art in the mountains.
