As we chatted, the car came to a stop. The tea vendor quickly urged us to get out, saying it was closest to get to Zhelong Mountain from here. Along with the three of us and the tea vendor, two local women also got off. One was in her thirties, carrying a child, and the other was around sixteen or seventeen. Both wore headscarves and embroidered aprons. Their outfits were all white, as the locals value the color, suggesting they were from the Bai ethnic group. However, these minorities didn’t dress in colorful clothes as we might imagine; they weren’t in festive attire since it wasn’t a holiday, and with so many different ethnic groups around, it could be hard to tell them apart.
I didn’t really want to travel with these people, but the friendly tea vendor told us that in remote areas, it’s customary to stick together and help each other out. Shirley Yang, who had often worked with Native Americans, knew it was best to respect local customs to avoid unnecessary conflicts, so she decided to join the three of them.
The area was filled with high mountains and deep valleys, quiet and lonely, with dense forests. We walked along winding, rugged paths. It turned out that the distance from where we got off to Zhelong Mountain was still quite far. I was secretly relieved that I hadn’t split from the locals; otherwise, it would have been tough to find the right path.
After walking for over two hours in the mountains, we finally reached the foot of Zhelong Mountain. There were no houses or villages here; even the stone workers lived a bit farther away. At the base of the mountain, there was only an inn called Caiyun Inn, which provided food and lodging for tea merchants. The two Bai women traveling with us were the innkeepers, returning from shopping. It was quite a trek to come down from the mountain, so they had to buy a lot at once, carrying big bags and a child. Fatty and I decided to help out, not only carrying our own heavy gear but also helping them with rice and chili peppers. By the time we arrived, we were exhausted.
In the inn, besides the six of us, there were no other guests. The locals were very simple; they never locked their doors when they went out. Passersby could stay inside, and there was always water in the jar and food in the pot. You could eat and drink your fill and sleep until morning, leaving money in the rice jar when you left. This had become a customary practice, and no one ever left without paying.
The Bai woman with the child was the young widow who owned Caiyun Inn. The girl, around sixteen or seventeen, was her husband’s sister and was Han Chinese. Her nickname was Peacock, and she had big, lively eyes that made her quite cute. Dressed in ethnic attire, she looked much better than the local women. This was the only place to rest at the foot of Zhelong Mountain. If you walked south for a day, you’d find a type of tea, which merchants often came to buy. Every time they passed by, they would inevitably stop at Caiyun Inn.
The innkeeper was very grateful for our help. As soon as we entered, she and Peacock started a fire to brew tea and cook. Before long, Peacock brought out the tea. Fatty took it, sniffed, and praised, “Wow, this smells great! What kind of tea is this, little sister? Is it the famous Pu-erh from Yunnan?”
Peacock replied, “No, this is our local tea, brewed with water from the snow-capped mountains. Each tea leaf looks like it’s made of gold. You should try it; it’s really good!”
Fatty said, “You can tell it’s good tea just by smelling it, without even looking at who brewed it.” As he spoke, he pulled out some cigarettes and shared them with me and the tea vendor. We sipped tea and smoked while waiting for the innkeeper to prepare our meal.
Fatty wanted to show off his knowledge in front of Peacock, so he took out another pack of Hongta Mountain cigarettes and said to the tea vendor, “Hey brother, do you know that smoking has its own pairings? We just had Yunnan cigarettes, and now switching to Hongta Mountain will give us a whole new flavor. In the capital, we call this ‘the Tower Mountain never falls, the clouds always stay.’”
Peacock wasn’t interested in Fatty’s cigarette theory but was curious about the insect net we brought. She asked Shirley Yang, “Are you going to catch butterflies at Zhelong Mountain?”
Shirley didn’t want to lie to the girl, so she let Fatty explain. I worried that Fatty might say something off, so I thought it would be better for me, someone with potential as a political officer, to handle this kind of revolutionary outreach.
So, I told Peacock that the three of us were from the capital, working at the Natural History Museum, specifically collecting rare butterflies from around the world. We were here to catch butterflies to make specimens to take back to Beijing for an exhibition, allowing foreigners visiting our great country to see what Yunnan butterflies are like. This would not only fill a gap in our research on butterfly specimens but also bring glory to our nation and generate revenue. We aimed to achieve modernization and create one brilliant achievement after another on the new Long March of reform and opening up. From every angle, this work was a great cause for the country and the people, a strategic and cutting-edge scientific endeavor, with significance comparable to humanity’s moon landing.
To my surprise, my speech not only excited Peacock but also left Fatty and the tea vendor dumbfounded. The tea vendor asked, “Wait, are you saying butterflies have that much value? Should I stop selling tea and join you in catching butterflies instead?”
Shirley, wearing sunglasses, tried hard not to laugh at my wild talk with Peacock. She looked a bit like a Nationalist spy, as if she were mocking me and waiting to see how I would get out of this.
I realized I had gone too far and quickly told the tea vendor, “Well, you see, there’s no high or low in revolutionary work, just different roles. Whether it’s selling tea or catching butterflies, we’re all contributing to the modernization effort. We’re all socialist cogs in the machine. If you drop your tea business to catch butterflies, then the people can’t just look at butterflies without drinking tea, right? Foreigners love tea too; tea culture has a long history and is appreciated worldwide. Our old friend, Prince Sihanouk, really enjoys tea, so selling tea is also an important and meaningful job.”
Just then, Peacock’s sister-in-law called her to help with the meal, so I took the opportunity to stop talking. After a hasty meal, I went outside the inn to use my binoculars to observe the situation at Zhelong Mountain. The highest peak shot straight into the clouds, flanked by steep cliffs, stretching endlessly, making it hard to tell if the summit was covered in white clouds or snow. The area was indeed filled with mist, layered beautifully, with wisps of smoke and fog starting at the mountain’s waist. The higher we looked, the thicker the clouds became, all trapped by the mountains, gathering together. The main peak of Zhelong Mountain stood like a warrior in a white crown and green armor amidst the sea of trees.
Below, the forest was vast, with waterfalls and diverse natural beauty. The rivers and mountains here matched the maps we had seen. Deep in the valleys behind these mountains was the tomb of King Xian, but we had no idea if the Mysterious Dust Pearl was actually inside.
Thinking of the evil Teng technique and the maggots I had seen in the stone statues along the way, I couldn’t help but feel a bit fearful about the tomb. However, since we had come this far, we had to move forward. There was no turning back now; all we could do was pray for the blessing of the Mojin ancestors.
The tea vendor planned to head out early the next morning to buy tea, so after dinner, he went straight to the back room to rest. Fatty and Shirley finished eating and came out to stroll with me, all of us looking up at the towering mountain ahead. Figuring out how to cross this towering Zhelong Mountain to reach King Xian’s tomb was a big challenge. Seeing the steep and majestic mountain, all three of us frowned in worry.
In the past, the blind man and his group had hired a local guide to navigate the treacherous snow-capped mountains. It was extremely dangerous to attempt the climb without a guide. However, when we asked the innkeeper at Caiyun Inn, she told us that all the locals who had previously crossed Zhelong Mountain were long gone. Over the years, it had become rumored that the mountain was haunted, and no one dared to go up there anymore.
While we were at a loss for what to do, Peacock suddenly said, “If you want to catch butterflies in the valley near Zhelong Mountain, there’s a tunnel at the foot of the mountain. You can float bamboo rafts through it without having to climb over the mountain. But there are a lot of dead bodies over there, and it’s said to be haunted.”
There were two marked routes to enter the Insect Valley on the human skin map. One was to cross over the wind gap on Zhelong Mountain, and the other was to go around Zhelong Mountain along the Snake River. The second route required traversing a perilous primeval forest between the Lancang and Nu rivers. Although the straight-line distance on the map didn’t seem far, anyone who had been through a primeval forest would know it could take ten to twenty times longer than expected. Plus, there were swamps in some areas, making it a veritable green hell.
Both routes were difficult, but crossing Zhelong Mountain, which was over three thousand meters high, seemed more feasible. However, attempting to cross a snow-capped mountain without a guide was no joke; we could easily end up in trouble before we even got started.
When I heard Peacock mention a shortcut, I quickly asked for more details. She only knew a bit, so we went back to ask the innkeeper. She told us that at the base of Zhelong Mountain (which the locals called Aiteng, meaning “tail-less dragon”), there were many caves as dense as a spider’s web. It was said that these caves were dug by ancient ancestors. In the past, rebellious bandits occupied them to resist the authorities, and the soldiers, unable to navigate the complex terrain, sealed all the entrances with stones, trapping the bandits inside. Every time there was a festival, if you pressed your ear against the rocks of Zhelong Mountain, you could hear the desperate cries from within.
Of course, this was just a local legend. No one could say which dynasty built the caves, who constructed them, or what their purpose was. It was unclear whether the bandits were local minorities rising against oppression or something else entirely.
However, in recent years, someone discovered a cave while quarrying stones. Inside, there was lava and an underground river that flowed through the mountain into the Snake River on the other side. The water was deep enough for bamboo rafts, and with this waterway, we wouldn’t have to worry about getting lost in the maze of caves. The terrain was gentle, and the current wasn’t strong, so we could float downstream easily. Coming back would require some effort to paddle against the current, but overall, it was much more convenient than climbing over the mountain.
Finally, the innkeeper warned us that while this was a shortcut, there were many strange corpses on either side of the cave, and no one knew when they had died inside. Those who were timid might be frightened. A few people had floated through the cave before, but the Insect Valley was filled with miasma, and there were no signs of human life, making it pointless to go there. Recently, no one had dared to venture that way.
I told the innkeeper, “We don’t need to worry about that. We’re going to the valley to catch butterflies for specimens, serving the people. We’re materialists; how could we be afraid of the dead? Since there’s a shortcut, it would be foolish not to take it. Besides, if others have successfully passed through, it means there are likely no ghosts—just ancient burial sites or something similar.”
I remembered seeing a military martyr’s symbol on the door earlier and asked the innkeeper about it. It turned out that Peacock’s brother had died on the front lines. I realized that the war in the southern border was still ongoing, and while in Yunnan, I should take the opportunity to visit the graves of fallen comrades. I couldn’t just think about making money and forget my roots.
I also discussed with the innkeeper whether there were any locals with shotguns we could rent for protection. The innkeeper had Peacock fetch a “Jianwei” air gun from the back room. It was a steel ball air gun that Peacock’s brother used to carry when he went into the mountains to hunt birds. The innkeeper was kind-hearted and offered to lend it to us for free, without requiring a deposit; we just had to return it.
I felt a bit disappointed; I had hoped for at least a double-barreled shotgun, and this bird-hunting gun felt more like a toy. However, upon inspection, I realized it was a good gun, well-maintained, and not a standard small caliber. It could shoot medium-sized steel balls, had a long range, and was heavy and stable. It could take down wolves, no problem. The only downside was that it was single-shot, requiring reloading after each shot.
Having something was better than nothing, and since I couldn’t find a better weapon nearby, I tossed the air gun to Fatty so he could get familiar with it. The “Jianwei” would be his to use for now.
I thanked the innkeeper, and that night, the three of us stayed at Caiyun Inn. Fatty and I slept soundly, completely letting go of the fatigue from our journey. It was a deep sleep, and we didn’t wake until the next morning when Shirley Yang tugged at our ears to get us up. Reluctantly, we finally crawled out of bed.