Chapter Ninety: The Ancestral Rite

Our motherland, with its five thousand years of history, holds within it countless memories passed down from our ancestors. Yet in this era of rapid change, how much of these ancient traditions do we still remember?

After working through the night, Lady Moon finally faded away, draping herself in a veil of mist. In the east, a dazzling red sun rose, layers of morning clouds radiating their brilliant hues. Wisps of smoke curled from the blue-tiled rooftops, announcing the arrival of morning in Snow Village.

It was five o’clock.

“Brother Xiaolin, Brother Xiaolin.” An urgent voice, drawing closer, shattered Xiaolin’s sweet dreams.

“Who is it?” Xiaolin, who had been dreaming of Wang Yuqing, opened his sleepy eyes and asked lazily.

“Brother Xiaolin, it’s me, Er Pang! Why aren’t you up yet? The ancestral ceremony is about to begin. Grandpa Cui has called everyone to gather at the Snow Village ancestral hall.” Er Pang’s anxious voice rang out from outside the door.

“Ah!” Xiaolin jolted awake at these words. He’d spent all day yesterday playing in the mountains, and then half the night playing cards with Xu Tong and the others. In his drowsiness, he’d completely forgotten what his grandmother had told him the night before. “Coming, coming!” he called to Er Pang as he hurriedly pulled on his clothes. Today’s attire was reserved for ancestral rites: a set of black cotton clothes, a black cloth belt, and black cotton shoes.

Two minutes later, Xiaolin was dressed. There was no time to brush his teeth, so he popped a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, planning to return and brush after the ceremony. Opening the door, he found Er Pang, also clad in black cotton clothes, waiting like an ant on a hot pan. Without a word, Er Pang grabbed Xiaolin and rushed toward the ancestral hall. Xiaolin even managed to splash some water on his face as they hurried along.

By the time they arrived, a large crowd had already gathered at the ancestral hall, all dressed in black attire, belted at the waist with black cloth. The group included young and old, but only men—there wasn’t a single woman among them. They stood in orderly rows, arranged by seniority. The scene was solemn and silent, not a whisper to be heard, each person standing quietly in place. It was a stirring sight, reminiscent of soldiers awaiting orders on the battlefield. At the very front stood Grandpa Cui, the village chief, with five other elders behind him—Snow Village’s most respected men. Seeing this, Xiaolin and Er Pang quickly slipped into their places in the ranks.

Because Xiaolin’s ancestors were from Snow Village, no matter where his family lived, he still belonged to the village, and so he was obliged to attend the ancestral ceremony. According to Snow Village tradition, every family must send at least one male to the ceremony each year; otherwise, they would be deemed unfilial—a label no villager would dare to bear. When Xiaolin’s grandfather was alive, he attended; after he passed, Xiaolin’s father, no matter how busy, always came on this day. In recent years, Xiaolin had taken over, having turned eighteen and become qualified to represent his branch of the family.

The Snow Village ancestral hall stood at the foot of a mountain, as close to the slope as possible. It had stood for many years and, though renovated numerous times, still retained its ancient and dignified air. Covering over three hundred square meters, its entrance bore four bold characters: “Snow Village Ancestral Hall.” Door gods were carved into the wooden doors, and couplets flanked the entrance: “A thousand branches return to one root; ten thousand streams share a single source.”

“The time has come,” Grandpa Cui murmured, then, with a commanding voice, declared, “It is time. Enter the ancestral hall and bow to our ancestors.” Leading the way, he stepped inside. The others followed in strict order, each man entering in turn, no one daring to step out of line.

Inside, rows of ancestral tablets stood in neat order, one after another. At the top was a tablet edged in gold. According to the village elders, it belonged to Snow Village’s most illustrious son, who had risen to the rank of prime minister—second only to the emperor himself. Only the most distinguished ancestors were honored in the main hall; those of later generations, like Xiaolin’s grandfather, were enshrined in the left wing. There, many niches housed cabinets, each sheltering ancestral tablets. In front of each niche stood a low, long table for offerings. When a new male was born into the clan, a red slip of paper was pasted on a pillar to announce the addition to the ancestors.

Since this was the grand ancestral ceremony, only the ancestors in the main hall were to be worshipped, and the ritual was carried out with utmost solemnity. No women were allowed among the worshippers. The ceremony included reciting prayers, presenting offerings, and performing the three kneelings and nine prostrations—all traditions passed down through the ages, each step complex and never to be taken lightly.

Grandpa Cui straightened his robes and began to recite the ancestral prayer: “In December of the year 2013, Cui Ming, Zhou Weizheng, Liu Da, and others offer pure libations and humble fare to our ancestors, mourning thus: …” The prayer was lengthy and written in classical language, so intricate that even Xiaolin, an excellent student, struggled to follow. As for Er Pang and the others, understanding wasn’t important—as long as the rites were performed.

After more than ten minutes, Grandpa Cui finally finished the long recitation and the offerings were presented: fine pig heads, lamb legs, fresh fruit, and more were set upon the altar. Then everyone, following Grandpa Cui, bowed to the ancestors—kneeling, bowing three times, rising, kneeling again, bowing three more times, and once more, for a total of three kneelings and nine bows—the greatest gesture of respect.

After two hours, this grand ancestral ceremony finally concluded. Xiaolin felt his entire being cleansed by the ritual; such ancient traditions have all but vanished in modern society, surviving only in the rural heartlands.

When Xiaolin returned home, he found Wang Yuqing and the others eating breakfast. Seeing him, Wang Yuqing moved aside to make room, ladled him a bowl of millet porridge, and laid a pair of chopsticks on top—like a virtuous wife. The sight warmed Xiaolin’s heart.

He took a deep breath and gulped down the porridge—he was famished, having stood without rest for two hours.

“This afternoon, we’ll go pay respects to your grandfather,” said Grandma Xiao. Xiaolin nodded. She wasn’t allowed to join the morning ceremony, but in the afternoon, she could enter to honor her own ancestors.