The Ritual

This story is by Jenny Wang and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

When the sun came up to the top of the sky, father was performing the ritual at the crossroad again. He was wearing his old yellow ritual robe with a black top hat. Small bells strapped on his wrists chimed every time when he waved his arms up and down. Two pieces of yellow paper he held were written in red squiggle characters; the plague devil spells. I stood at the back beside a giant burner holding three incense. The smoke was so strong that the air became hazy.

Villagers gathered and I could see all sorts of people, young and old, mostly poor, mostly starved. A pale skinny woman holding her even paler baby stood there motionless. She was our client today. Her 10-month- old son had the plague but she refused to believe it. Days later the baby started to poop blood then she ran to us for help. 

“You’ll have to bring me a rooster, older than 1 year old, the bigger the better.” Father said. I couldn’t figure out how this woman could afford a live chicken but this morning she knocked at our door, one hand holding her baby and the other a cage. I looked down, a big cock with a bright red comb and long orange tails rustled with feisty.

“The rooster’s head is the most important reason why this ritual works.” Father told me many times before. “Rooster is the animal who chases away the darkness and brings out the sun. That means it stands at the end of ‘Yang’. You also need to do it at noon on a noisy intersection. All this ‘Yang’ energy gathers so the plague devil, the extreme ‘Yin’, could be casted away.”

“The plague devil hovers in the air. When I dance, the spell catches it. The blood stunts it. And the head neutralizes it. The ritual is not over until all these elements are buried. We must follow every step, otherwise it could be dangerous.” He warned me. 

Father finished his dancing and gave me these yellow spell papers while I tilted one of the incense and lit them on fire. Soon the ashes from the paper floated down to a small bowl underneath. Now it was the rooster’s turn. Father opened the cage and grabbed the poor bird. It made a long loud squeak sound. That was the moment I usually closed my eyes but I tried to keep them open this time. The cock had been exhausted without food for half a day, but it didn’t give in. Father, however, was more experienced. His left hand gripped firm on its wings to its back, and his right hand extended its neck to the other direction. From that moment on the cock had no chance. 

Father bit its neck. The crowd shrieked. Blood dots flew in the air like a red clover blossom before spattering to the ground. Father let the blood drip to the bowl with the burnt ash. He then pulled out a small knife and cut off the chicken head. Its crown was so red that it hurt my eyes. 

Some men volunteered to help dig up a small hole on the ground. Father held the bowl and carefully poured out the blood soaked ash and topped it with the head. He cupped his hand with dirt and covered the hole with care. Soon the hole disappeared and the ritual was complete. The woman cried with relief and gave father a small fraction of silver. That poor baby never made a sound. 

 

After people scattered, I helped my father clean the blood stains on his face, his mouth, his nose and his ears. “Five more years I will have enough money to pay your dowry, then I could retire.” He smiled with pride.

I didn’t reply. I was only 14 and never wanted to marry. I wanted to go to the school at the corner run by a British priest just like my neighbor Jun. Jun told me that the plague was caused by dirty food or water. A buried dead chicken’s head could never clean food or water, I just thought.

“Wen, what are you looking at?” Father interrupted my thoughts. Then I realized I was gazing at the school from a distance. Scared, I shook my head in haste. “Don’t you ever think about going to that school! Those white skinned foreign heathens have nothing to do with you. The magic they are playing. Despicable.” Father stood up and spitted, “pack up our stuff tonight. We’re heading to the next town tomorrow.” He said before he took off his garment and went to the wine house. I gathered the stuff and walked back. The incense smell mixed with raw animal blood was still thick in the air.

That night I thought about that rooster with a bright red comb. He fought and fought but it was all futile. I could feel despair in his eyes, just like mine. 

The next morning I cooked porridge for breakfast. Father was not up yet so I scooped out his portion and went to his room. It was weirdly quiet and father was lying on his back. I tapped his shoulder trying to wake him up but a sudden terror went up to my spine. I shuffled my hand to his forehead. He was running a fever. 

I panicked and teardrops fell down my face. What should I do? I didn’t know any doctors since people came to us for help if they had any discomfort. Shaking, I thought of Jun and bolted out.

Hours later Jun brought his teacher to help. The British priest had a stern face with a single glass on. He walked into the room carrying a small briefcase under his arm. He picked up a tube-like thing, stuck it under father’s tongue, and pulled it out. He looked at it and said something to Jun while taking out some small vials. Jun turned to me, “The priest said your dad had the plague but there was a cure. You have to give him this portion three times a day, ” he pointed out these blue vials on the table. “He will get better if he is lucky.”

I cried and walked them out. I wanted to pay them a small silver fraction but they refused. Jun patted on my shoulder, “Don’t worry, Wen. Priest said we could take care of you if anything happened to your dad.” 

The next day father woke up. The fever went away but I was worried. Whatever I said to him he remained silent. I got him the vial but he pushed them away. I mixed them in the porridge but he refused to eat. He seemed like a puppet, no expressions, no words, as if life had already escaped from his body. In the evening when it was time to feed him again, my hand felt some moisture under the sheet. I pulled it out and I saw the red sticky fluid on my fingers, just like the one that splashed in the air during the ritual. 

It was blood. 

Then I saw dried blood stains on father’s face too, his mouth, his nose, and his ears. Panic took over me. I stood there doing nothing. Then my memory slowly surfaced from my deep consciousness.

No It couldn’t be. It must not be.

That night after the ritual I went back. I could tell where the hole was using my small lantern. The dirt was still raw. I placed the light on the ground, picked up a random stone, used it as a shovel, and removed the dirt layer by layer until I saw a small piece of red. The rooster’s head, still fresh, quietly waiting for me. I held it up using two fingers and looked into its eyes. They had lost the shine but I could still see its pride. I put the head in my pocket and covered the hole with dirt again. On my way home there was an old dump site. I stopped and stood in front of it. Big dark monster with nothing but an appalling stench stared back at me. I held my breath, grabbed the head, and threw it to dump. A dull “pop” sound replied. I looked around, it was pitch dark, and my only companion was the cold smelly breeze.