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Pape Moe

Prologue

Few months ago, Huphor received fundings from a Chinese company for the next sail to find Tahillia and was found dead in his reading room in San Francisco before his departure: covered with moss and dirt on his back, a rattan sceptre with special pattern speared through his chest from behind – as if he has been nailed to the desk. Manuscripts and literatures scattered over the desk. Blood went down his ankle and flooded the floor. Head, laid down to the desk with his pale face facing aside, mouth slightly opened. On the desk, a few strange runes in white paint were drawn with his own fingers. Some of it vaguely visible, as part of it been wiped out during his struggle.

(Image/Police Archive: Death/Vague Sceptre/Vague Runes)

Was it some kind of sacrifice ceremony? Or the haze created by the murderer? The police are struggling to determine whether this is a suicide or homicide.

Rumors arose among students, and the official news is Professor Huphor deceased from heart attack due to his age. On the contrary, plenty of police and detectives from the jurisdiction have visited his residence on that day and the whole area has been blocked by yellow cordon. In the academic world, many chose to remain silence, and the few who knew something kept themselves away from the discussion.

Chapter 1

Last Wednesday, farewell ceremony of Professor William·J Huphor has been held in San Francisco. Endangered anthropology and civilization scholars all gathered at the location. Since the late professor’s body has been buried (only his kins were there), the ceremony serves more of a condolence’s activity for the publics. The ceremony has been presented in a way never seen before, making all the attendants overwhelmed. Some said Professor Huphor made a will not long ago considering his age, that if he leaves, agencies must arrange the ceremony by traditions of the Tahillia Islands.

Hence, when we arrive, every scholar was in white robes showing one arm and bare shoulder regardless of their gender. Kind of weird, like some kind of stage show from Greece – after all they would have never dressed like that in their whole life. Some are too old that they arrived in wheelchairs. Wheelchairs with robes on the other hand created subtle conflictive atmosphere in the air.

Me and Travor applied for the transfer to this course last year. Based on Professor Huphor’s literature, we studied local culture and people on the Tahillia Island, and (the utmost difficult part in the whole endangered anthropology world) to seek the exact geological location for this island. Questions on whether it exists has been asked by renowned researchers, but in the last 40 years, hundreds of packs of records has been reported from around the world by the archaeologists.

Totems, unearthed artifacts, and the existing manuscripts, all proved that the Tahillia Island do exists. With these evidence scattered mysteriously across the globe, scholars cannot stop wondering how splendid this “lost civilization” could have been, that it has once sailed and trade everywhere. There is no other reason to explain its disappearance but with traces left all around the world.

We were wearing this kind of Greek rope as well. Being an introverted Asian girl, it made me feel uncomfortable. My mom asked me before I left, that if I was joining a theatrical show, she will surely attend. I didn’t know how to explain, because she would not have believed me if I told her the truth. I stuffed the sandwich in the mouth and mumbled through it.

Obviously, Travor was excited. He always gets the firsthand news. On our way here, we had to hold the rope with both hands. “I know Huphor, he will get everyone drunk even when he is now dead, he has that kind of magic.” His eyes flashed with some sort of eager. “I have been in his house. Some said he was mentally ill. Well, may be. It was very messy, completely stuffed, but he does not allow anyone to touch anything.”

“Please, please, it’s a condolences ceremony, not quiet the right place to be excited.”It rained, with a lot of mud wells on the road, but I was a bit distracted, only worried that my robes could be soiled. Afterall it will be returned to the rental shop in a few hours.

“He was drinking that day, asked me if I wanted a sip. Well, you know, nothing beats alcohol.”

“Yeah, what then?” I knew when Travor starts, he never stops. So, I picked up the conversation. Mud splashed on his rope around the ankles.

“Seriously, Zhang, it was the best cocktail ever. I don’t know how to describe it, but you know I asked the other professors who was close to him, they all said the same thing. That’s because the Tahillia natives taught him how to make it.”

“Who was close to him? Phillip? Wasn’t he the one calling Huphor the Shakespear of academia and he made up all the field research reports himself?”

“To be precise, Phillip said: Mad Huphor claimed his recipe was from the islanders, but who knows, it could be from China or Thailand.”

I was obsessed into distant civilizations like Sanxingdui and the Pre-Xia Dynasties. Went down to all the existing materials as much as I could. When I chose archaeology as my major, it was a decision made with ten years of thorough consideration. When I encountered Tahillia, I have forgotten everything I studied in the last decade. It sucked me in like a massive whirlpool.

I smiled: “sorry, only rice wine or spirits in China, no cocktails. ”

Memories kicked in and he hammered his temple: “Don’t you dare mention spirits to me, that was too harsh.”

“Spirits are fine. Alcohol from one place fits with the food from there. If you drink spirits you need to eat bacon or stews or dumplings. For rice wine, you will need foods from Zhejiang or Jiangsu. Never mind, you know neither of these places.”

“Yeah yeah.”He surrendered. “I didn’t say it was bad. But Huphor, his cocktail was marvelous even without food. If he wasn’t kicked out, I would have been drunk and slept on his sofa.”

“Why did he got kicked out?”

“Who knows! Besides, police came to me for the record just because I went there too often for the cocktail. And then I heard it…”

Lowered voice. “I heard he didn’t died of heart attack. It was a murder. It was a rattan sceptre. Don’t tell anyone… I will show you a photo if you wish…”

I interrupted. “Ok, first of all, no one will want to see you drunk in their own house. Secondly, news said it was only a rumor. Professor was old. Don’t make fuss on these kinds of things.”

Travor mumbled: “I’m not joking… I only told you and now you don’t believe me.”

While we spoke, we walked to the venue and there were already many people gathered there, as if it were a huge Greek-themed cosplay. Although it was a farewell party, the scene was filled with big and small baskets, containing dozens of kinds of fruits, which looked like if they were fruits – not sure, but it was some sort of fruits. The organizers began to speak, and they said that they were a little distressed, because many of the fruits on Professor Huphor's list had never been heard of and could not be found at all, so they had to give up. They paint the durian in red, or the papaya in purple, making it looks like what he expected. Hopefully, Huphor will smile knowing this when he observes from heaven.

People at the venue burst into laughter. Well, from what I knew of him, he could have been very upset and hiding among the clouds. Afterall, no one provided drinks at the scene, so I rolled my eyes at Travor and whispered, "I don't know you well, so I don't believe it." He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, turned his head and continued to listen to the scholars who took turns on stage to read the speech in memory of Huphor.

(Picture: Gathering Photo)

His old rival Phillip trembled and burst into tears, saying that he hoped to expose his lies while he was alive, and now the chance is gone. It is said that Huphor adds fun to their work when he was alive, that the pursuit of truth must be bitter, and the opposition to dissent is exciting and youthful. Their academic careers have been rejuvenated by Huphor.

Among them, the pro-disciple Rodrick said that "taxonomy is based on the organisms observed by human beings; Biology is based on existing life forms and infers how they reproduce and iterate by natural selection...... When everything depends on "discovery", true discoveries often faces refusion because people cannot accept new things. It was heartbreaking.”

A critic-poet closed the ceremony, "Huphor's contribution to humanity is indelible, even if it didn’t advance the discipline. Because mankind are born with glory, whether it was his discovery or fabrication, let us indulge in it, let us get rid of the pain of reality, and have a place to yearn for. The dwelling place of the heart. ”

At the end, Travor suddenly turned to me and said, "Oh, when I was drinking, I told him that if Tahillia really in the middle of the ocean, it would be impossible for subarctic conifers to grow, he got so angry and kicked me out." I didn’t answer to that, since I was lost in a trance, frustrated mood in the venue.

He muttered. “Yeah, things do exists, it’s just that we didn’t see it.”

Chapter 2 Green Mango Vanilla Potion

Monday, eight o’clock, the worst classes in the world. God knows how the students spent their weekends – wandered through 3 or 4 bars the night before, drinking fake wines, soaking in loud music until morning.

So, in theory, only teachers who have classes on Monday morning knows exactly how the girls look like. At that time, they are completely exposed without make up, pale and dull. The best timing for boys to see the reality, no magic, no perfume – only wisdom. They are seeking the most mysterious human civilization in the world. Last night, she was dancing closely with a man, with thick smoky makeup, eyelashes and flashy eyeshadow. Only a few hours later, she drops all the makeup and started to study a local diet report from Tahillia research manuscripts. Her headache was about to crack her down and the air conditioning was very cold in the classroom.

Dominic stands on the podium and opens a thick hard book. “Now, let’s read the Huphor text selection 233-34 I send you last week.” I noticed the term “text”, instead of “article”. After Huphor’s death, some professors changed their attitude in a subtle way. In general, “article” is closer to fiction, a fictitious creative form, and “text” is closer to non-fiction, a documentary text form or research report.

Here is a clip of Huphor report 233-34:

Tahillian Islanders are always so pure that makes me eye moist. Yesterday when I got bitten by a red-black stripe snake called Banlax Banlax, I was a bit worried about whether I could live. So I went to Saqi Laham for help immediately. After a while, she boiled some kind of herbal juice, asked me to drink it and applied on the wound. Although my hand is swelling like a fermented sour bread and soaked in green by the herbal juice, but my body works just fine. At lease my live is saved. Then I heard from the neighbor Meng Laham, that Saqi was wounded when she went out to seek the herb, but she never told me about it or asked for anything. Of course, money means nothing here, just like watches. Tahillia people have no idea about hour, minutes and seconds, nor years or months. They measure the time it takes to climb over a hillside as “boil 3 bottles of babo juices”, and month equals to babo’s growing to dropping.

I went to ask Saqi’s condition. She was not in the stone cottage. Her daughter said, Saqi looks quiet ill and went into the woods alone. Here, people believe that nature’s temperature heals. If one gets hurts heavily, or too weak, they call it winds slipped into their body. So, lift the leaves, get in between the leave and humous, heat generated by the fermented leaves are called the hug of tree god here. Saqi snuck herself into the arms of tree god, and anyone who does that, people will stop seeking or disturbing her until she dies or comes home in one piece. I have ran out of antibiotics, and base on the respect of local tradition, I couldn’t go out to look for Saqi even though I felt so guilty of it.

Surprisingly, Saqi’s daughter was not nervous or terrified. She noticed my disappointment and suggested taking me out for further treatment. May be in her understanding, my face looks terrible because the poison was still in my body. I asked Taya, “What if something happens to your mom, why are you not worried?” Taya smiled and said the nature god will dominate everything’s life & death. If Saqi disappears, she will no longer be Taya, she will inherit Saqi’s name and become Saqi, mom of herself.

I found it hard to accept and was grieving. Taya believed posion went into my heart veins and needs to be taken care of. She asked me to follow her to the second row of stone cottage behind the temple. In case I forgot, I will mark down important things and descript the surroundings afterwards.

I imagined Taya will bring me to the priest’s stone cottage, or the medical house, but I have never been in this stone cottage before, not even the neighbor of here. In fact, it looks like a workshop for hunters to dine when they go out for hunting, but Taya insist this is heal– DpuloaAlama, meaning: doctor. In my understanding, Saqi is the doctor, but Taya said its something everyone knows, daily medical procedures. But to heal, is to heal the inside, like healing sadness, or pain.

Here is a note of the DPuloaAlama Recipe:

*To be specified, DPuloa is a doctor in this tribe, his name. And Alama is healing, lifting pain and peace. Some of the villages nearby also called Alama as Alamma/Alame/Alammio, they all mean the same.

Duolamieto 1/2 qua

Mecceko 5 qua

Whonaqi Pinea 1/3 qua

Bluro 1/3 qua （需要预处理，用松针点燃熏烤Bluro）

(Needs pre-treatment, lights up pine needles and smoke Bluro)

And then you get a cup of liquid with mixed scent of tomato leave/passionflower/green mango/pine needles, some of which have no English names, or Latin formal name, can be translated directly, so I use English to record the pronunciation.

DPuloa said drinking it can cheer one up. It is a liquid with strong acid, pale green, strong fragrance.

When he smashes the leaves and puts it into the liquid, the green liquid becomes transparent. After research and cross checked with North Nottingham botanist J Henry, I then find out the plant is very common in American. Not a species only found in Tahllian island.

And, refer to the photos of Mecceko and Bluro samples I collected:

*They look very closely to ambergris, but there are no sperm whales spotted near Tahillia sea. Locals said it is a fossile from some other kind of creature, which has clear fruit aroma. (Refer to 1, 2) As for Whonaqi Pinea, it is a fruit that cannot be preserved and corrupts in very few days. No sample value. (Refer to 3)

Huphor 233-34 report selection ends.

Dominic asked what we think after reading this. The classroom was so quiet that the AC can be heard. A while later, we came to an agreement that the information density is extremely high from the selection, regarding philosophy, how they understand the world, human relationship on humanity level, intergenerational alternation, food and endemic.

Homework was to look for records that we are interested in, and pre-read Huphor text selection No. 256-13 report. In the next class, we will put more detail information together. I read through the text, a portrait appeared for the first time in 256-13 – a naked strong man, carrying a bow and observing the distance.

It came to my mind that why Huphor did not record what it feels like after drinking the vanilla potion. Was it because he need to be academically precise, or something else happened?

Chapter 3 The Hunt

During the research, I ordered an iced Americano. It was dark and cold breezing, and it was the only coffee shop that opens at night in the neighbor. Researching, or “proving with evidence” was boring and obscure. You often find paradox puzzles that seems to be worth looking into but in the end leads to an eye-catching lie made up by someone who claimed to be a witness.

I can feel that glowing light of computer on my glasses. I wanted to take a rest, and pre-read chapter 256-13 on Tahillia brave man.

Soles can feel the temperature of the earth, the hardness, or even rhythm, he said. He also said soil can spread rhythm, like music. In my imagination, it could be vibrations caused by animal movements, but then of course, what do I know. He said bare foots makes him more sensitive and so sharper minds which helps him to stay away from danger.

And then I asked, why others wears shoes? Everyone has a different preference, Kuntan turned around and looked at the hunters.

Tahillia respects every Yen(people) who can hunt, regardless of their sandals. Therefore I can’t help but look to the left of him: I understand now why he uses Yen(people), but not yanggy(men) or Yinggy(women), because that hunter who is obviously women looks extremely robust, sharp and fast. Both yanggy and yinggy are all naked and strong and dark, respects each other. This is a relatively rare thing in other tribes.

The other skinny female hunter Dansu had rounds and rounds of animal furs like monkey tails wrapping on her bow. Months ago, when I first met her, I thought it was for decoration. Until Bubata told me once proudly that those are the medals of hunting. Dansu runs slower than male, but she was the best shooter in the team. And, Dansu was also very good at making poisons for the arrowhead. Therefore for most of the time they arrange the hunt with male hunters holding spears and close the hunt on the ground and with Dansu on the tree to finish it. Because team doesn’t decide how to split the prey, but the owner of the arrowhead, for most of the time Dansu also takes the role of splitting preys. Kuntan was kind of like a team leader, who experts on spears, archery and medicines. Everyone in the tribe believed that he will soon become Baka Kumu(some sort of title as a senior team leader).

The day Kuntan became Baka Kumu, he finished a hunt on the jungle warthog.(Picture 1)Kuntan looking for animal traces and observes jungle terrain.

Something else worth noticing was the blind hunter Kahall. Bubata said Kahall is a blessing for the tribe, and the priest gave him his name (meaning infinite darkness). His smelling and listening are both better than ordinary people’s. He could smell and identify animals from one hundred foots away and helped hunters to avoid danger for many times. Although his needs another member to assist for his movement, but Kuntan always asks Kahall to join the hunt for his support.

Back on that day, I followed Kuntan's people into the jungle, hoping to witness the Tahillians hunting methods firsthand. Given how my previous actions had shown that my presence only held others back, my feelings at that moment were quite complicated. Since Kuntan had once again given me his silent permission, I kept quiet and followed behind. Earlier expeditions—some for collective gathering, some for setting traps—had a relatively relaxed and lighthearted atmosphere. But this time was different. A palpable tension showed in the bulging veins at everyone's temples.

I sneaked to Bubata and asked what they are hunting for this time, if it was antelopes or warthogs. Usually Bubata is very talkative but this time he gave me a warning look.

“Banlax Tamu”, I picked up the word in their following conversation. Banlax is snake(the one which bit me was Banlax Banlax, aka snake snake). Tamu, a hallucinogenic fungi. So I had my guess.

Kuntan began to slow down his pace and turned his head to ask Kahall with a deep voice: are we there yet? Kahall did not say anything, but cautiously nodded and lowered body. Hunters stayed at where they were and hold their breath. Everyone looked at Kahall. Kahall closed his eyes, sniffing, or listening, with his chest breathing in and out. He spread fingers, like as if he’s been feeling the wind, or calling for something – fingers shaking gently, breathing deeper and further.

Just at a glimpse he suddenly made a fist and pointed somewhere. Hunters all turned to that direction. After a few breaths, a pale purple fog that is weak enough to be easily overlooked floated through. Dansu jumped lightly onto the tree and squinted, looking into the mist and saw a red-black python that is thicker than bucket swimming through the trees towards them. It was bigger than any python that I have ever seen. I could not have recorded much for what happened later. But the loss was heavy enough. I could only say, it reminds me of Illiad, of Odyssey, or those combats and days that have gone far away from our civilization. But not from Tahillia – it is both heaven and hell. “You eat, or got eaten”. Kuntan said, “If you eat, you better chose the right food and right place.”

In all the stories, there are only details of combat, as if they lasted for ages and warriors never die. But the batter with nature, at least according to my memories, happens within seconds. Dansu was not in a good position, far too close to the Banlax Tamu. We merely saw how it happened. She got strangled, limped. Her bow, with her medals and glories, landed nearby. Bubata was close to me(I stayed really far away) and my guess was he was responsible for protecting me. Seeing Dansu being attacked, he rushed to her and climbed on the tree to pierce the snake with a spear. He tried several times, attacked the snake with outrageous power. But the treetop is too weak to be a standing point. Snake turned around and bit on his waist, teeth penetrated his guts. Bubata burst out his last attack and speared into snake’s eye.

Snake fallen onto the ground, writhing in pain, violently swinging its tail. Bubata then got teared apart, thrown away on the ground, looking lifeless. Tahillia warriors closed in and speared its head and tail into the mud. Snake struggled even more fiercely, flipped a few hunters over. Some hunters tried to cut its head off with knife, but failed. The scales were too tough. In the end, Kuntan cut off its chin and bled it out.

The next day, a ceremony for returning the dead was held. Priest pierced through middle of Dansu and Bubata’s back with a scepter while singing a melodious incantation. In Tahillia tales, scpter can bring back soul of the dead to Tahillia. Like tides. May be Dansu and Bubata’s soul will soon become somebody’s child again.

Kuntan was giving away snake bile wine(was supposed to be Dansu’s work), it is said that Banlax Tamu’s bile is hallucinating, therefore a top-notch painkiller. Also because all the snake bile can disperse wine stasis, it is a rather important supply for jungle combats.

I went to Kuntan and told him that I don’t need the wine. He insisted that since I am here I am part of them. I told him my sadness and therefore I don’t want it. He read my face, gently covered the space between his eyebrows with his hand. He told me Dansu returned to the nature, Bubata loves her and wants to go back with her. He attacks to finish his last assist, he knows exactly what he need to do. He was happy. Then I remembered, Bubata always had that kind of proud look whenever he mentions Dansu’s bow.

(Picture: Bubata and Dansu using monkey tail to decorate the bow)

At the end, under my persistence, Kuntan took back the wine. Then he gave me something else, a fruit. He said, eat it and you will forget Bubata, you will be fine. I took it and thanked him.

But I never ate it, until it rots.

Huphor 256-13 report selection ends.

Closing the computer, I soaked myself in the breeze of the night. If there is a fruit for forgetting in our civilization, it would be planted everywhere for healing emotions. Until we screwed up ourselves, just like how we screwed up everything else. Everyone, forgets everything.

I can somehow understand Huphor’s dilemma: researchers from the outside are the variation in the ethnic group during field works. If researchers’ appearance caused the tragedy, it not only jeopardizes the safety of locals, but puts researchers themselves into extreme self-doubt and denial. However, Tahillia is a rather dangerous area (comparing to modern civilization), the differences between these two can make researchers easily lose their judgement on the level and directions in their works. This is also why Huphor has been questioned by the academic world and the public: his balance tilted to immersive research, but not ethics.

By the way, detectives came to the academy today and asked students’ questions. Did I misjudged Travor? Is it possible that he told the truth? I must have missed some details…

Chapter 4 Fig & Feta Cheese

In the morning, Dominic holds a durian dyed in red while he walks in the classroom. Look what I found on the condolence ceremony, he smiled and immediately explained, I didn’t steal this, they gave it to me.

This is the Guvloa fruit photo Huphor took in Tahillia, he read through the thick text. “Huphor said the combat squad leader Kuntan gave him this fruit once, to release him from painful memories. He asked the locals and they told him this Southeast Asian durian-look thing will help you forget specific events if you ate a whole fruit. You just need to think about the thing you want to forget when you are eating it. But because Huphor don’t want to lose track of record and dong want to forget Bubata, so he only tasted a bit of it. Smells like fig, tastes like feta cheese, so he said.”

(Photo 1: Guvloa fruit look Photo 2: inside of Guvloa )

Someone raised hand and asked: “Morning, Dominic, sorry to interrupt. Apart from selection 233-34 and 256-13, I also read some other text. Huphor’s note on Tahillia depicts human relationships and are full of life, sometimes even very dramatic. But the selected text for the class is mainly on food and spices, is there a reason for this?”

Dominic gently put down his dyed durian. “Thank you Dave for noticing it and it is exactly what I want to discuss with you – when we are digging information, where should the anchor point be?” He then said, “I supposed you all had a difficult weekend, regardless of the direction you chose to look for materials, you must have noticed that there are a certain amount of false reports mixed up in the mass information. How can we judge if it is real? Can the custom logic that fits with our civilization be used to annotate other civilizations?”

Travor raised his hand, “Yes, that’s why I am loitering. I was in the opposition last week and this week I’m on the supporting side. In the beginning, I made a meta information base based on the atmosphere and landscape of Tahillia island and used AI to generate thousands of possible environment simulations. I am certainly not arguing about the reliability of AI, but at least it speeded up the process of huge amount of information. Let me jump to the conclusion – none of the simulation matches with what Huphor described.

Travor continued, “later on, which is this week, I took two days leave and visited a plant transplant specialist and a haploid-plant-cloning doctor. Their conclusion on the biology photos and text I provided was – for an island civilization to reach this level of bio-diversity, they must have ancestors whose plant studies are ahead of us, very good at sailing, sailed across the world to bring back this lunatic plant version of Noah’s Ark to Tahillia, predicted hybridization of the plant and the new bread to come. It means they know plants so well, close to the gods.

Dave suggested, “this is just one of the most remote possibilities, which cannot be called evidence. As a researcher, keep it rational, look for proves but not giving supposes. In my research… Sorry Dominic, I have no interest in the text you asked us to read, but I went to the chapters about Tahillia marriage customs. First of all, I am on the pro side, I believe the existence of Tahillia. I realized their opinion on breeding is pioneering in this era. Their leading edge cannot be explained unless they know about modern medical science like microorganism, cells, viruses.”

He opened his note and continued, “Huphor wrote, Tahillia priest taught philosophy to the villagers, that breeding has two categories: immortality as in no reproduction or reproduction as in no immortality. The immortals, with the wealth of knowledge and technology, builds glorious civilizations but ends with war. The reproductionists develop science slowly but achieves another kind of immortality via reproduction – an immortality by harmonizing with nature. It means that reproductionists have realized the unnecessary extension of individual life, and the sanctity of intercourse & giving birth. He mentioned tides, priest said life is tide, nature metabolism. The livings are always controlled by dispersed particles whereas they are always the same body, although different by the look of it.”This reminds me of Solaris by Polish writer Stanistaw Lem, some sort of communion liquid of consciousness.

“Your speech, isn’t like science fiction?” Travor cannot help himself.

“Not really, ideology and culture with differentiation is part of the prove. Not to mention your Plant Noah Ark theory comes from plant lover’s imagination and fiction, not from Tahillia literature.” Dave fought back.

“Plant samples I saw in Huphor’s place, were those fictions as well?” Travor increased volume.

“It is fiction, until you can prove that the sample does actually came from Tahillia island.” Dave shouted, “like you said, all the research we are doing are non-sense, let’s set off and find it to solve it.”

“Yes, we are just one step away. Now Huphor is gone, and who knows when they are goin to relaunch the search. All we can do is to look at these bits and pieces! If I can, I would rather sail than sitting here.”

Dominic called me all in a sudden and asked me what I found. My homework was rather simpleminded comparing to what Travor and Dave did. I waffled, “sorry I only read what has been required, but based on my interest of food and culture, I found some information about Tahillia recipes. I am still working to prove the reliability of it. By the way, Dave just asked why the chapters were all about spices or food, in my opinion, these details seem to be more practical comparing to other parts, just like the anchor point Dominic mentioned.”

And then I read some Tahillia recipes I found. I was trying to restore these recipes, and some of the familiar elements reminded me of my hometown. I noticed that when they handle preys, they tend to use cypress leaves to smoke it. They also used yeast and made soybean products. These habits were close to most of Chinese food cultures. I can’t help but thinking, may be one of their ancestors had this idea and visited China at some point? Did they witness the almighty Tang & Song dynasties? Or even earlier, that they shook the hands of Yan Emperor or Patron of Agriculture?

I was lucky that Dominic let me off and continued the class. We then discussed chapters on hunting, felt sorry for the loss of Dansu and Bubata. At the end of the class, a paper slightly broken has been projected. It was Huphor’s writing:

(Picture: 233-35 selection, vague writing, broken paper)

233-35 selection

About 3 days later, I went back to the stone cottage. I smelt firewood from far away, it was a soothing and familiar smell. My instinct told me everything went back to normal. As expected, Saqi was back! She looks well, even better than before. Her cheeks shimmers with glossy shine. I couldn’t believe it. She’s back and her pale green eyes shining with jady sparks. I ran to her and hugged her really hard, kissed her forehead again and again, again and again. She smiled kindly, gently pushed me away and pointed at the pot – telling me to stay for the meal.

I nodded. And told her my hand have recovered. I almost let tears out of my eyes when I said those. God knows how much I missed Saqi. She was my sister or mom back there at Tahillia. I asked her about the “nature’s hug” and how she spent those few days. She smiled and said, very very well. Her satisfaction came from deep inside. But she didn’t tell me the details, only asked me to try myself if there is a chance.

Taya came back. She laughed and told Saqi how sad I was. She described how I drank the DPuloa Alama vanilla potion and took off all my clothe, ran around the tribe and hang myself upside down on the tree. Of course she made all these up. I lost half a day’s memory after I drank the potion. Some vague memories about laughing loud, being hungry and ate many smoked meats. Potion enlarged the senses and everything taste good. When I woke up there were some bruises on me. But since I was quiet old, Taya can’t be serious about what she said.

Supplementary: people in the tribe looked at me weirdly in the following days.

233-35 selection ends

Everyone in the classroom smiled implicitly. We were like watching dumbasses in Hang Over being drunk and shameful. Being attracted by brilliant stories from Huphor, regardless of the wobbling academic world, these funny chapters always inspired me for more leads. Researchers want to make academic contributions at the end. What drives us ahead is that we all wanted to prove the civilization existed. That this civilization is not alone, lives are not alone.

Chapter 5 Dansu is Giving Birth

Huphor selection 240-02

Dansu was an important female archer in the tribe. Her bow has been decorated with many monkey-tail-shaped animal hide. She’s beautiful in my civilization’s standard: pale brown single eyelid, high and straight nose, eyes that sees all, animal like aggressiveness and exotically sexy. No doubt at all. Even with a ten-month-pregnancy(raised belly like a rich fruit, voluptuous breasts that will surely feed the forthcoming baby), her body still seems robust with dark coffee color and silky shine. I must admit, that as a creature, I was obsessed by her beauty.

I tried to ask who the father was. But Tamilians didn’t have the concept of “father”, not even the concept of rights. They have warriors, heroes, providers, children, but no fathers. Technically, Dansu can have descendants with any male or can be with many males on the same time. My culture’s logic has no place in here. This kind of invisible network seems to rely on female’s nesting instincts, strong communication and cooperation skills – not like men who tends to fight, kill and win. But at the same time, they also respect heroes and worship the brave ones. I couldn’t speak. Not even one word. Because I nearly said it out loud: “this is objectifying male, making them weapons instead of human.” And then when I look back at my civilization, I must admit the negative side of it: did we objectified female and made them like breeding machine? Keep it where it is Huphor, remember, only observation, no talking.

The day of Dansu’s delivery was approaching. In the early morning, as the sun rose and the thin mist gradually lifted, the tribe piled up stones to form a basin and began making some kind of mud paste. The paste was a dark olive green, and the air around it was filled with the scent of lavender. Saqi told me they were making the final preparations for Dansu’s childbirth. By the afternoon, the mixing and stirring were mostly done, and people began applying the paste with their hands to the walls of the birthing stone cottage, both inside and out. Anyone who passed by would scoop up a handful of the paste and spread it on the walls. This was a blessing: the newborn would belong to the whole tribe. It was also a promise—by leaving their handprints on the birthing room, they pledged to treat the woman’s child as their own and raise it together until the age of ten.

(Image: The Birthing Room and the People)

Once the paste was on the walls, you could see with the naked eye the grains of lavender, the tiny bumps of mashed papaya flesh and peel, and some small pieces of grass stems. Later, someone lit several braziers, and the burning frankincense rose in smoke, carried into the birthing room. The fumigation would continue until Dansu went into labour; then the braziers would be moved out and placed at the door. The skylight at the top of the birthing room would be opened during the birth, for the Tahillia people believed that the breath of life would descend at that moment and pour in.

After the fumigation, the birthing room was warm and clean. Everything was ready, yet Dansu showed no signs of contractions. Late at night, the tribe dispersed and returned to their stone cottages. The air grew still and slow; the jungle rustled with wind and the chirping of insects. I wasn’t sleepy and leaned against a nearby pile of stones, organising my notes by the firelight. In the early hours, just as I was about to head back to rest, I heard faint footsteps. Looking up, I saw Dansu’s figure entering the birthing room. She pushed open the skylight, moved the braziers out with a stagger—her water must have broken. She was all alone. What should I do, I thought. Should I wake Saqi, or the tribe’s healer? No, no. I reminded myself again: know when to stop, Huphor. Remember, only observe, do not interfere.

So that night became complicated and unforgettable. I was nervous, worried about Dansu’s safety. And along with that nervousness came that thought: “Hey, for heaven’s sake, that’s not even my child”—a reflex from a patriarchal society. But still, it was a child, wasn’t it? So, for no reason at all, I became the night watchman for Dansu’s labour. The frankincense smoke from outside the birthing room kept billowing, scattered and carried away by the lazy night breeze. The faint, damp scent of lavender and papaya drifted in and out. In my drowsiness, I caught a milky fragrance—full, moist, holding the warmth of deep skin. In a daze, I dreamed I was back in the womb, wrapped in the umbilical cord, curled up tight. I dreamed a beautiful dream: distant chanting, time like dust. The aroma lingered, sacred and loving. A soft, warm light descended like a giant hand, gently stroking me.

I opened my eyes—it was Bubata! He grinned, pressed his hand against my face, and asked me why I was sleeping there. Only then did I realise it was already broad daylight. I hurriedly asked him how Dansu was. He said she had given birth to a daughter, who was healthy and would surely become the finest hunter. He added that Dansu was fine too, that everything was fine.

Supplementary note: When Dansu passed away, her daughter was not yet half a year old, but she inherited her name, and from then on, this baby became the new Dansu of the Tahillia tribe. My gut tells me this was not Bubata’s child; he was just one of her distant admirers, one who never even dared to tell her. Seasons come and go, the tides ebb and flow—if, as the priest says, life is always one and the same, then why should any of these stories matter?

(Image: Dansu in life, a photo I took of her holding her child)

Huphor Selection 240-02 ends

Reading the manuscripts was arduous. Much of the handwriting was blurry, or the paper poorly preserved — you could say it was deciphering and researching all at once. Add to that the sheer volume and complexity of Huphor’s materials, the disordered sequencing, the impossibility of filtering out key information. Yet once you immersed yourself, those randomly recorded scenes unfolded before your eyes as if real. That immense power of empathy, that vitality, leaps from the text into the reader’s consciousness, as if you were conversing with that distant civilization, with its people. This is the charm of fieldwork texts.

Chapter 6 The Anteater

I strongly urged Travor to take me along next time he visits the botany professor. He smirked and said, “Zhang, our research directions are totally different. You should go find a chef.” I yelled in anger, and he turned and ran. I said, dripping with sarcasm, “Next time I find some strange plant in a recipe, I’m definitely not sharing it with you!” Travor suddenly stopped, turned serious, and said, “Hey, speaking of recipes. I came across something interesting while researching records of English transplant gardens.”

“What?” I stopped too, intrigued.

“It’s… well, it’s something I can’t tell unless Zhang treats me to Asian Noodle House. And let me tell you, you won’t regret it!”

Travor rattled off that whole sentence in one breath, leaving me caught between laughter and tears. “You know that place is terrible, right? It’s fake Chinese food. If they opened in China, no one would eat there.”

“But I think it’s delicious,” Travor protested. “Sometimes you can’t have standards that are too high, or life gets boring.”

“Fine, fine. But just so we’re clear, pay for what you get. We’ll talk while we eat. If the information you have is valuable, I’ll cover it.” To be honest, I’d rather cook at home than eat at a Chinese restaurant here. But we weren’t close enough yet for me to let him witness my cooking skills.

Once seated, Travor obediently pulled a crumpled stack of papers from his bag. “Where did you find these? In the trash?” I teased. He neither confirmed nor denied, carefully flipping through them, then yanked out one sheet and slapped it on the table. He pointed with his finger at a highlighted area. “This isn’t Huphor’s manuscript. It’s older. It’s a procurement record from Vyas.”

Vyas was an Indian horticultural collector, infamous for stopping at nothing. In the end, he was arrested in England for hiring a killer to steal a rare orchid, which led to the deaths of seventeen people. He was said to have a highly reliable “wishlist of specimens,” in which he recorded tips from plant hunters he employed around the world. Among them, one claimed to have seen flawless, immaculate Gooseneck Tuberose on a large oceanic island called Tahillia. And not just a few—they covered the mountains. The natives would lightly toast the flowers and mix them with apricots in a ten-to-one ratio to make jam.

Back to the dorm, I immediately started searching. I vaguely remembered that in the manuscripts I’d read earlier, there was a related entry—a field note about anteaters.

Huphor Selection 249-98:

Among the gathering team were Saqi and Taya, whom I knew well. Bubata had also come along; he volunteered, wanting to introduce the jungle to me. He was the most talkative Tahillian, always with a warm smile. Last time, during the trap incident, he was the one who rescued me. He never treated me like a nuisance—instead, he seemed full of curiosity, perhaps because he’d never seen such a clumsy human before. Today’s task was to harvest wild apricots. This fruit is also common in my own civilisation; it’s rich in vitamins, and if sweet enough, it makes excellent wine.

We made our way through thickets and a stretch of spruce forest with canopies so dense they blocked out the sky. Along the path, we began to see the occasional apricot that had ripened and fallen to the ground. Some had already softened into a deep brown, their juices seeping out. Others were nothing but bare pits. “These pits,” Bubata said, pointing to the ground, “the lemurs left them. We’re in their territory now.” According to Bubata, lemurs loved Tahillia apricots more than anything, and the people loved them too. To avoid trouble, they had to follow a shared agreement when harvesting.

I was surprised. “How do you make an agreement with lemurs? Can you communicate with them?” Bubata suddenly laughed, showing his white teeth, shaking his head as he chuckled. “Even between the two of us, we need dance (body language), don’t we?” I pressed on: “Do lemurs understand dance (body language)?” He laughed again, pointed to his eyes, and said, “Observe. Observe. The boundaries of action, the reactions, the results.” I nodded, understanding what he meant. Here, humans and animals build agreements through behaviour.

As we spoke, we reached a wild apricot grove, a messy tangle of trees. It wasn’t just apricots—dozens of other plant species were mixed in, along with parasitic vines. The gathering team began their work with practised ease, picking and collecting. Saqi and Taya were not far from us, picking and eating as they chatted. Their laughter drifted over, and only then did I realise the scent of apricots had arrived with it. Taya jogged over with a handful of lovely apricots, their cheeks blushing red, the ripe flesh gleaming with a translucent glow in the sunlight. Bubata smiled, took one, and popped it into his mouth, his face radiating pure happiness. I cupped my hands, accepted the apricots, and ate one myself.

The juice burst in my mouth the moment my teeth broke the skin. The thin peel carried a faint, delicate fuzz, and the fruit, ripened under the sun, had developed a honey-like sweetness. The fragrance of apricot flowed down my throat—such a sweet, clear juice, the spirit of forest plants rejoicing with each chew. I treasured them, carefully tucking the apricots into my trouser pocket. My pocket bulged, and my heart felt like a pirate with a treasure hoard, filled with the spoils of happiness. Bubata turned back to join Saqi and Taya in their labour—or more accurately, in their feasting.

By the time the sun was high in the sky and the temperature was rising, the gathering team began to wrap up and head back. I noticed they hadn’t brought many containers—only Bubata, carrying a woven rattan basket with barely a few dozen apricots inside. He said Saqi had set them aside especially for me, to take back and make into jam. “You gathered all that, and you’re not taking anything back?” I was almost anxious now, asking loudly to Saqi and Taya. “We did gather,” Taya said with a contented smile. “Where?” I asked again. Everyone burst into laughter, and Taya patted her stomach. “Right here. We ate them.”

It dawned on me: so this was what they meant by gathering, and this was the “lemur agreement”—take only what you eat, eat only what you take. Humans and lemurs alike. Bubata noticed my reluctance and tried to comfort me. “If you want to eat more, come again,” he said.

The Tahillians seemed to have no concept of “possession” or “private property.” It reminded me of how Saqi had refused payment when she treated my snakebite. Of course, outside currency was as meaningless to them as dead leaves. I tried to dig deeper, wanting to understand whether they had any concept of money. Saqi’s answer surprised me. Among the chants passed down by the Tahillia priests, there was a piece of philosophy meant to instruct the people, which went something like this: “The gods of the island once used currency. Gold and silver summoned the venomous snake of greed. The gods cursed by gold lost their freedom, chasing endlessly after gold and emptiness, until at last they perished.” So they had once used currency, yet for some reason, at some point in their civilisation, they had voluntarily chosen to abandon it.

The locals deeply believed that once a commercial society took hold, people’s minds would shift accordingly, and they would naturally come to see everything as a tradeable commodity—including time, spirit, emotion, all invisible things—ultimately catalysing greed, alienation, and dehumanisation, turning the planet into nothing more than goods and expendable raw materials. Too many mysteries here, far too many.

I walked back in silence, pondering all of this. When I reached the stone cottage, I sat down without a word.

The deeper I went, the more I felt that this was not an “undeveloped new land,” but a “utopia” of civilisational regression. No, not regression. God, how could I say something so ridiculous? Of course it wasn’t regression. I had a feeling they had experienced more than we had. No—something was definitely off. Had they once possessed technology? Perhaps they knew how to sail? What made their ancestors make such a decision? And what made my subconscious produce such a guess?

I looked up at Saqi and Taya tidying up, and in a daze, I felt myself shrinked—as if I came from an extremely backward country, still smug about childish toys called aeroplanes and rockets. The more I thought about it, the tighter my back became, breaking out in cold sweat. Where exactly was I? What year was it? Had I eaten something bad?

When I snapped back to myself, I realised the seat beneath me was damp and sticky. The apricots I’d tucked into my pocket were completely crushed, turned into jam. Taya smiled and asked, “What were you thinking? Bubata said goodbye to you, and you didn’t even heard him.” I didn’t know where to start, so I smiled sheepishly. “Oh, nothing. Oh no, the apricots got crushed.” Taya said it was fine, there were more, and asked if I wanted some. I stood up and saw Saqi outside of the stone cottage, mashing apricots and mixing them with a flower that resembled tuberose.

(Image: Saqi Making Tuberose and Apricot Jam)

The afternoon sun made waves of heat rise from the ground. A gust of wind lifted the grass curtain of the stone cottage, and the scent drifted over, gently embracing me. The cottage walls showed faint signs of peeling. On the red-clay windowsill sat clay plates and jars. I focused my eyes and saw a line of tiny ants making their way with effort along the wall. For some reason, all of this had a beauty so sacred it felt like heaven. Was I still on Earth? Were they human, or were they gods? Did ants have civilisation? Who… was I? A wave of dizziness hit me hard.

When I woke, it was nearly dusk. Perhaps it was heatstroke. I heard rustling sounds and thought it was Saqi. When I turned around—good heavens—I screamed at the sight of a giant, hairy creature and nearly fainted again. It was perfectly calm, as if nothing had happened, lowering its head and pacing around beside me. I looked closer—oh, it was an anteater! I looked closer still—oh no! Thousands upon thousands of ants had crawled onto me, drawn by the crushed apricot mush in my pocket, swarming all over me. And this furry creature was having a marvellous time, stretching out its long tongue and feasting on my body. “Shoo, shoo!” I waved it off, quickly took off my trousers, and carried them by the cuffs outside the stone cottage to fetch water.

There were still many ants crawling up the legs of my trousers onto my thighs, and I couldn’t shake them off! Oh well, I thought to myself, how much worse could it get? Bare-arsed, I soaked the trousers in the stone trough, adding coconut oil and scrubbing them again and again, while that hairy creature stayed right beside me, blissfully licking the ants off my thighs. The ants and the tongue made me so ticklish I couldn’t stop squirming.

“Hey, thank you, Mr. Anteater,” I said, trying to ease the awkwardness. He played along, making a noise like a dinosaur as he ate. “Shh! Quiet!” I yelped, afraid his calls would bring others to see me in such a ridiculous state. Luckily, Saqi and Taya were out; at this hour everyone was at home preparing dinner, so probably no one would notice me. I wrung out the trousers, held them in front of me, and quickened my pace. Just as I was about to make a run for it, the anteater suddenly stood up on its hind legs, spread its arms like a person, and let out a loud cry. I froze and scrambled back. “Hey! What are you doing? Don’t make noise!”

Suddenly I remembered what Bubata had taught me today about communicating with animals: observe, observe. I followed the creature’s gaze and looked ahead. A group of laughing tribal women was heading our way. “Damn.” Left with no choice, I covered my backside with the wet trousers, turned back toward Saqi’s stone cottage, sat on a stool, and used the trousers to cover where needed covering. Just then, these women came in, entering the stone cottage. Taya ran over happily. “You’re awake!” I forced myself to stay calm, a smile plastered on my face. “Hey, Moo’s here too!”

“Moo? Who’s Moo? Him?” I pressed one hand down on the trousers and pointed with the other hand at the anteater. He was ambling slowly into the cottage.

“Yes, Moo is our neighbour. He visits sometimes. Looks like you two are already friends.” Just at that moment, the anteater began trying to lift my trousers with his snout to continue his afternoon tea. And the Tahillia women showed no intention of looking away; they all crowded around, laughing and chatting. What happened next grew even more outrageous. I can only hope the warm and hospitable ladies enjoyed the “private circus show” Mr. Moo and I put on for them. In short, for the sake of scholarly dignity, please forgive me for writing no further.

(Image: Huphor’s hand-drawn anteater) Having missed the chance to take a photo, sketched Moo’s portrait from memory.

Huphor Selection 249-98 ends

A while back, I went to Boston to visit my friend Lao Qin and happened to sit in on a lecture by Mr. Ruan. He talked about “annotation” in creative work—that is, cultural translation: for example, two Vietnamese people speaking wouldn’t add a parenthetical explanation (“pho, i.e., delicious beef noodle soup”), nor would a white writer add “(sandwich, i.e., two slices of bread with something in between)” after the word sandwich. Because essentially, annotation is an admission that the majority is the default reader, and that one’s own subject is “the other” requiring introduction and explanation. He argued that refusing annotation is the way to reject subordination and otherness.

I won’t go into that in detail, but having read Professor Huphor’s manuscripts for so long—considering how many years he spent in Tahillia, from complete unfamiliarity to gradually learning the local language, to barely managing to communicate, to gathering himself to begin fieldwork and documentation—and considering the professor’s professional training, as well as his background as a white male… there was indeed a subtle shift in his writing. His texts went from “full of annotations explaining local circumstances,” to “annotating only key points,” to “almost no annotations at all,” documenting everything immersively. I feel like I can sense the transformation in his psychological state, his identity gradually shifting from outsider, from observer, to becoming a member of the island. I think perhaps even he himself wasn’t aware of it at the time.

On another note, after lunch with Travor, I realised he’d always been rather nice to me, while I’d been somewhat harsh. So I took the initiative to suggest that if he wasn’t busy next week, we could meet at the library to research together. He smirked and said there were no chefs in the library, that he’d do his own research, and then—waddling like a slow-motion ostrich—walked off without looking back. I was so mad I stomped my feet. Absolutely, deeply regretful that I’d gone soft on him. Go on, you weird, sarcastic creature!

Chapter 7 The Immortals

Starting from the third week of the semester, in addition to piecing together fragments of material, we also began working on hypotheses about the geographical location. Of course, these hypotheses had already been picked over repeatedly in academic circles and among enthusiasts, with opinions divided. I also started to understand more deeply why Dominic mentioned the need for an anchor point—there has to be a starting point somewhere. Like Travor: analysing the geographical location from a botanical perspective, he concluded it was closer to the north, near a continent. Dave, approaching it from human biogenetics, pointed out that the monolid feature Huphor described in Dansu was closer to that of primitive Siberians, Mongolians, or Asians, so in terms of location, he leaned toward Northeast Asia. As for me, I was focusing on dietary habits and climate, and I was leaning toward South Africa.

But regardless, one thing was certain: it didn’t belong to any continent—it lay in the middle of an ocean. I thought that the reason Huphor experienced a sense of temporal and spatial dislocation was largely because the Tahillians were, in my view, a group of civilisational migrants. Their ancestors hadn’t developed their civilisation in isolation on the island; they had already come into contact with the outside world, then chose to flee or seclude themselves in an uninhabited place. I wasn’t sure which word was more appropriate. They had purposefully discarded certain achievements of civilisation that had led to disastrous consequences, seeking a pure land in their disappointment and re-establishing a cycle. At least, that’s how I saw it—they must have known how to sail, and they must have intermarried with different peoples. In any case, this form of tribal settlement wasn’t primitive; it was the outcome of a long process of refinement.

I shared my thoughts with Dominic. He agreed that the idea of a migration from an advanced civilisation was a highly credible hypothesis. Through textual research on anthropological fieldwork reports from other regions, we could broadly conclude that when a less advanced civilisation encounters outsiders, the inhabitants tend to show two typical reactions: fear and hostility, or flattery and reverence. Yet in the Tahillia records, the islanders’ demeanour was neither obsequious nor aggressive—not at all what Dave had referred to as “the look of a backward civilisation that’s never seen the world.” Crude as that phrasing was, I had to admit: they carried themselves with a certain compassion, and even a sense of looking down from above.

When those two words surfaced in my mind, I startled myself. I ordered myself not to get lost in the fog of sci-fi imagination. The most important distinction between an academic researcher and an amateur enthusiast is rationality. As alluring as legends of lost civilisations are, they are equally dangerous. Focus on the text. We need evidence.

Huphor Text 270-41

Kahall’s eyes were like polar glaciers—porcelain-white with sharp, cold blue fissures. He rarely opened them, having grown accustomed over the long years to eternal darkness. He was always melancholic, taciturn, his long hair covering most of his face when he lowered his head. Occasionally, when the wind passed, I knew he was listening—he could hear the sounds the wind carried, from places far away.

He always stayed closer to the ground. When resting, he would squat or kneel; when moving, he would bend his legs and lean forward, occasionally using his slender arms to feel the earth, like a trained martial artist. When the terrain was difficult, he would bring Dupa—a boy of about ten—to warn him of obstacles ahead. But most of the time, he was alone. I found it hard to imagine what he thought about in that unseen world, in the silence.

I tried to communicate with him after I’d learned some basic Tahillia. But he avoided it—or rather, he didn’t like to answer. The last time we spoke, after a very long silence, he said, “You rely too much on words. Words are the cause of deception, and the cause of misunderstanding. You need to use your heart. Since you can see, then see more.”

“But words are also the cause of communication, the cause of understanding,” I argued. He reached out and covered my eyes. For those few seconds, I was in darkness, wanting to speak but stopping myself. He rose and walked away. When I opened my eyes, he was walking like anyone else—his steps sure, making the linen wrapped around his waist sway with each stride. After that, whenever I thought of speaking with him, I held back. I thought perhaps it was better to simply observe from afar.

Kuntan was one of the few people here whom Kahall did not shun. I often saw them walking side by side. Kuntan was a man of few words; most of the time they didn’t talk. Occasionally, Kuntan would describe the colours of the sunset to Kahall, the courtship movements of pheasants on the treetops, or the distant mountains when they were no longer beneath one’s feet—misty, dark blue, those scenes Kahall could not touch. When Taya said they were in love, it finally dawned on me. “They braided each other’s hair,” Taya said. In Tahillia custom, a suitor would cut a lock of their own hair. If the other accepted, they would weave that lock into their own braid.

I realised that during hunts, Kuntan always carried a certain mossy scent on him. At first I thought it was a kind of jungle camouflage to mask his scent, but later I understood: Kahall could track him through the smell—whether he was near or far, whether he had passed by—even when Kuntan was barefoot and made barely a sound. When they spoke, Kuntan would lower himself to Kahall’s level, crouching beside him, whispering softly.

When the priest recited the songs of the ancestors, they would kneel together, listening in silence. Kuntan would quietly reach behind and hold Kahall’s ankle, gently moving his index finger. Kahall would hold his breath, sitting upright with eyes closed, focused on the chant, giving no response to Kuntan’s gesture. In Kuntan’s eyes, usually so full of animal aggression, there was a subtle ripple of emotion I’d never noticed before. Since I heard about this from Taya, I began to see more and more of their intimacy in everyday life.

I wanted to know if this kind of relationship was common in Tahillia settlements, so I went to ask the priest. The high priestess was an elderly woman, around sixty. What distinguished the religious functionaries here from those in other tribal civilisations was that they wore no special adornments—no facial tattoos, no black robes, no totems or grimaces. She looked no different from any other Tahillia woman, except for a rattan scepter with white markings, its base sharpened to a point like a spear.

Her dwelling was neat and clean—one might even say extremely spotless, as if untouched by daily life. My impression of her was more like that of a female writer or scholar in my own civilisation: wise, humble, with a measured and gentle speech tone. The Tahillia people held the priestess in great reverence; they would come regularly to hear the chants and would consult her when they encountered problems.

Knowing I had come to visit again, she had prepared tea in advance. It was made from the leaves of a special plant, with an elegant astringency and a clean bitterness. The tea was cold-brewed, and drinking it gave one a refreshing lift. I asked the priestess whether the situation between Kuntan and Kahall was common in Tahillia. She gave a faint smile. “You mean, love between those of the same sex?” I hadn’t expected her to be so direct, and nodded awkwardly. My furtive intent to pry into others’ private affairs had been suddenly laid bare. “Yes, forgive my impertinence,” I said.

She lifted her teacup, took a slow sip, then poured me some more. “Let me tell you a story.”

“A long time ago—we have mentioned this before—the world was divided into the Reproductionists and the Immortals. The former possessed great resilience, strong adaptability, and a powerful capacity for iteration; the latter were superior in their ability to acquire civilisation, but they eventually perished due to a fatal flaw: they could not reproduce.

The Spirit of Nature saw an opportunity and offered the Immortals a glimmer of hope. It stripped them of their immortality and granted them the possibility of reproduction. The only problem was that they did not possess the physiological desire for opposite-sex partners that the Reproductionists had. The peoples mingled, like fine white sand poured into beige sand. And so Nature, by controlling the sand, controlled its own metabolism.”

“Wait,” I interrupted, “are you saying this is not a matter of individual choice? … Do human thoughts not matter? What about love? Does love not matter?”

“Who are you asking this question of?” she replied. “To the Spirit of Nature, none of these matters. We are merely sweat glands—when we are too hot, we release fluid to cool down; when we are cold, we contract. There has never been individual choice here. As I have told you, there is no individual life in Tahillia. Death is not terrifying. As long as the water flows ever forward, that is the purpose. But if you ask me—of course love matters. Love is ultimate.”

“Who is the Spirit of Nature? Where is it?”

“Here. Everywhere. In everyone’s body. In those sequences. In your spirit.” My heart skipped a beat. What sequences did she mean? DNA? “What are sequences?” I asked.

“That is not important. There are many veils of mist—do not try to lift them. Like the Spirit of Nature: even if the naked eye cannot see it, small as it may be to the infinitely small, large as it may be to the infinitely large, it exists. Like the sequences: even if you try to see them, you will ultimately find there are always new veils of mist, until you return to the beginning.”

“Here, in Tahillia, besides Kuntan and Kahall, are there others…?”

“Kahall has spoken to you about the mist of language,” she said. “In truth, there are many things you can come to understand through other senses—by observing. As for the number, I imagine it will be neither many nor few. The Spirit of Nature favours mirroring.”

“If everything is truly under the control of Nature as you say, then what are we to do?”

“What you are to do, you will do. Will your stomach not be hungry tomorrow?”

(Image: The Priestess Holding the White Rattan Sceptre with Her Attendant)

Huphor Text 270-41 ends

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but my hands were trembling involuntarily. After some hesitation, I dialled Travor’s number. “Hey, could you come over for a bit? There’s something I want to show you.”

“Why do you… sound so weird? Missing a man or something?” I knew it—nothing decent ever came out of his mouth.

“If I were missing a man, why would I call a dog?” Every conversation with him got me riled up.

“Maybe because… you…” He turned serious. “Haha, okay, what’s up? What is it?”

“Oh, I think I saw something… something familiar. That thing—the murder weapon that killed Professor Huphor. I hope I’m overthinking it. What did you say it was before?”

When I said that, he clearly paused for a moment. “Uh… a sceptre? That’s how it looked like to me.”

My heart started racing. “Send me the picture.”

“No,” he refused outright.

“Why not?”

“No reason. You didn’t believe me anyway.”

“I still don’t believe you. I just want to see it.”

“Pfft. Dream on.”

Travor was really rude—he hung up on me straight away. I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly strained them. After all my guilt, after worrying that I’d misjudged him… Yet somehow, deep down, I found myself gradually leaning toward the idea that there was another version of the professor’s death. I wasn’t sure if it was out of admiration for Huphor—preferring to believe that everything he experienced was utterly unique in this world—or because of some inexplicable, faint fondness for Travor that made me feel he wouldn’t lie to me. Or perhaps… my brain’s CPU, having seen police questioning classmates from the anthropology department on campus several times, simply couldn’t help making the logical deduction.

If the murder weapon really was the priest’s sceptre from the professor’s manuscripts, then that would be Tahillia’s first, its only, and its most important piece of evidence—proof of its existence. As a researcher, I wanted to uncover the mystery. As someone aware of an ongoing case, I felt it might be wiser not to get involved. After all, I was just an ordinary student. What could I really do…?

As the old saying goes, better to have one less thing than one more.

Chapter 8 Tahillia Childrearing – Odd Cucumber

Curiosity is a funny thing: once it’s stirred, the more you try to forget, the more it itches. I found myself wondering whether I could find any other chapters related to the priestess, and whether Huphor had written more detailed descriptions of the sceptre… Wait. If I could access information about how the sceptre looked like, didn’t that mean others might have seen it too? Which would mean… the sceptre that killed Professor Huphor might not have come from Tahillia at all—it could have been a smokescreen created by the murderer to conceal their identity. But why would the killer do that? And what was the motive?

It was late, and under these circumstances, who could sleep? I went to the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. While waiting for the kettle to boil, all kinds of possible motives came flooding into my head: first, Professor Huphor had just received a large research grant to fund his expedition. Might other professors in the anthropology department have felt envious? Second, there were the sceptics like Professor Philip, who firmly believed Tahillia was a fabricated civilisation. Huphor’s expedition would have posed a serious threat to their position—what if he actually proved the civilisation existed? Third… could it be the high priestess herself? If the Tahillia people really were migrants from a more advanced civilisation, perhaps they didn’t want others to know the island’s true location. Huphor’s expedition would have been the greatest threat of all.

The water boiled with a rumbling sound, then clicked off. I poured it into a cup, steam rising in clouds, the coffee dissolving and swirling into a dark brown liquid. What exactly was bothering me? Normally Travor would talk nonstop, so why had he refused to say anything just now? Usually, he would have already come to find me. His quietness today was strangely unsettling. I considered calling him again, then stopped myself—better to avoid his sarcasm.

These thoughts were making my head spin. I forced myself back to the computer and continued reading Huphor’s manuscripts, searching for clues.

Huphor Text 295-09

Life on the island could sometimes be tense and dangerous, but it also had its moments of warmth and comfort. Seeing the children’s pure, innocent smiles—their carefree running and chasing along the beach—often made me briefly forget that I was an outsider. Though even now, I still cannot say for certain how I arrived here. It was all by chance…The original plan was to sail to the Strait of Baru Peninsula, then take a ferry south to Tuscu Island for research. But when the ferry entered a dead calm zone, we suddenly lost our communication signal, and the navigation systems began to be strongly affected by magnetic interference. The crew grew anxious, and our food supplies were running low. At the final moment, the captain decided to divide the group into teams, each taking compressed rations and tinned food to search for an escape route in different directions. Our small boat capsized in a storm… When I saw our food drifting away on the current, I realised the end was near. My only waterproof bag contained my notebook, my camera, and a small amount of medicine—nothing near enough to keep me alive in the vast ocean.

But when I next opened my eyes, I was in Saqi’s home. And so began this absurd anthropological fieldwork. I believe the interpreter, the medic, and the sailors who were with me on that small boat all perished. Where this place was, I had no idea. I did not speak the language. I did not even know how to return home. All I could do was adapt to the island’s way of life, build relationships with the locals, and wait for an opportunity. If you are reading this manuscript, please do not wonder how I managed to maintain my scholarly professionalism under such extreme circumstances. In the beginning, I was not brave; I simply had no choice. Today, I am in love with this place. Though I often miss my homeland, being able to record so much of this world is, in its own way, a blessing.

As I said, sometimes when I watch the children, I find myself thinking—these could be my children. Perhaps this is the influence of the Tahillians. They have no concept of “private property.” Everything is part of a seamless whole: prey, fruit, weapons, dwellings, even children. When a Tahillia woman gives birth, there is a ritual of pressing handprints on the birthing room—I mentioned it earlier. It means they will raise the tribe’s offspring together. So in a sense, Tahillians have no children of their own; all children are “new births of the island”—what the high priestess called “the tide.”

I asked Saqi whether, in a collective rearing system, it was truly possible not to favour one’s own child. Her answer made me think deeply. She said no child belongs to his/her mother; they belong only to themselves. The Tahillia people respect each spirit. This respect is shown not only through care but also through non-interference. For example, the adults will warn children where dangers lie, but if the children insist on exploring there, the adults will not intervene. Everything is left to the child. They may get hurt, or they may gain experience unique to them. The fruits of such exploration are also a gain for the entire tribe.

This approach carries great risks and is very different from the ways of my civilisation. Yet looking at Tahillia children—growing wild, developing freely—they do indeed each grow into their own distinct shape. Speaking of which… I happened to be here for Odd Cucumber Day, another unique Tahillia tradition. On this day each year, every child receives an odd cucumber from the priestess. Of course, wild cucumbers naturally come in irregular shapes—one might even call them “deformed”—a far cry from the uniform, elongated shape prized in commercial societies. The children are delighted to receive their odd cucumbers and eat them with joy. (I was fortunate enough to receive one myself; it was indeed refreshingly sweet and delicious, with a rich cucumber fragrance and crisp, juicy texture.) Odd Cucumber Day is a blessing—a wish that every child may become an odd cucumber, growing into their own wonderfully strange shape.

(Image: Children Playing Along the Shoreline)

Additionally, while the children were playing freely on the beach, Saqi and the others made a special drink. They crushed cucumbers and soaked them with half a piece of inkweed in spring water. It was cooling and refreshing to drink, and its scent was uplifting and pleasant. The men and women of the tribe sat on the rocks by the sea, sipping the cucumber-infused water as they watched the children running along the shoreline or leaping into the ocean from the jutting rocks on the side. The sea breeze swept in from the distant white cliffs, lifting everyone’s hair. Several girls grabbed inkweed that had washed ashore and threw it out to sea—they were competing to see who could throw farthest. One of the younger ones accidentally let go too soon, and the seaweed flew backward into the group of adults, sending them into peals of laughter. I noticed Kuntan and Kahall at the edge of the white cliffs, watching the children from a distance.

Whether hunters or outsider like me, in that moment we were all immersed in this shared space and time, enjoying a serene and simple peace. Sometimes I feel I am nearly forgetting who I once was—and yet I am somewhat glad to have become this new self, formed within the tide of Tahillia. Over so many years, no matter what has happened in the outside world, no matter how technology has advanced, the Tahillia people have never sought to “improve” the world or “tame” it. When their day’s labour is done, they fade into the earth, the sky, the clouds, the rivers, the animals and plants. They let the wind into their chests, exchange the carbon dioxide in their lungs with nature, and in silence feel the fullness of oxygen and the resonance of spirit. For thousands of years, this has been so. Their ancestors drank from the same springs, and in their childhood threw the same inkweed into the sea.

(Image 1: A selfie of me with the Tahillians; Image 2: Taya’s photo of me and Saqi)

Huphor Text 295-09 ends

I liked Huphor’s idea of the “new self.” I remembered that Rita Astuti once lived among the Vezo people of Madagascar for a period, conducting fieldwork on that community. But she discovered that the Vezo did not have a concept of ethnic identity—if you went out fishing, you were Vezo; if you did not go fishing that day, you were not Vezo. It reminded me of what the priestess had said about the tide: everything—human spirits, animals, plants—flows, iterates, and changes. There is no fixed being, only a constant becoming. It was remarkably similar to the ideas of Deleuze, far away in Europe. Civilisations separated by vast distances, yet echoing each other like mountain songs across valleys.

I closed my laptop. It was already two thirty in the morning. I noticed two missed calls on my phone—from Dave. That was strange. We rarely spoke; we’d never been particularly close. I called him back, and he answered immediately.

“Dave, it’s Zhang. You called me? What’s up?”

“Long story short. Travor has been taken away by the police. They said he was the last person to see Professor Huphor alive, and that he’s suspected of murder. What does that mean? Didn’t Professor Huphor die of a heart attack? Do you know what’s going on?”

It happened all in a sudden that I was confused myself. Travor had seemed off today. Could it really be… No, that was impossible. There had to be some mistake. “I’m not entirely sure either,” I said, “but I know it wasn’t Travor. I’m going to the police station. Are you… coming?”

Dave seemed caught off guard by the question. He paused for a moment, then said firmly, “I’m coming.”

Chapter 9 – Bamu, the Beaver

By the time we arrived at the police station, Travor’s inquiry was already over. We said we were his classmates and were let in to see him immediately. Dave anxiously asked what had happened, but Travor just looked up at me listlessly. “What are you doing here?”

“You have the nerve to ask me? Something this big happens and you don’t tell me?”

“I did tell you. You just didn’t believe me.”

I was speechless. He was right—he’d mentioned it long ago, but I’d assumed he was just making up one of his stories.

Travor said gloomily, “Now I kind of get how the professor felt. Telling the truth and no one believes you. It really doesn’t feel good.”

“So… was it you?” I was so flustered I didn’t know what to say, because deep down I knew it couldn’t be him.

“Of course not. Are you an idiot? When I left, the old man was still very active.” Travor rolled his eyes at me.

Dave calmed down. “So what did the police say?”

Travor mumbled, like a hostage choosing his words carefully: “Uh… I can’t say. Need the officer’s permission first.”

Just then, two uniformed male officers—one stout, one lean—walked in holding coffee cups, eyeing the three of us with amusement. We hardly dared breathe, frozen in place as if awaiting our sentence. Even though we’d done nothing wrong, the harsh white light of the interrogation room made me dizzy.

The stouter officer suddenly burst out laughing. He seemed to see right through my nervousness, patted me on the shoulder with his thick palm, casually pulled over a chair, and sat down.

“You’re classmates, right? You’re Zhang, you’re Dave.” His voice was deep and full-bodied.

Dave and I exchanged glances and nodded meekly.

“Good timing. I’ve got a task for you. Can you handle it?”

“Officer,” Dave said, his face reddening as he mustered the courage to speak up, “can we ask first—can Travor leave now?” The stout officer laughed heartily again, then his face darkened. “Of course not.”

“Why not?” Dave and I said in unison.

The officer gave Travor a long look, then turned to sweep his gaze over us. The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, the sound of me swallowing, the lean officer scratching his head, Dave’s toes wriggling inside his shoes…

Just as we were about to crack under the pressure, he reached out and slapped a few photos onto the table. His expression turned serious. “I hear you two are the researchers who know Professor Huphor’s manuscripts best. So… I need you to tell me what these white characters on the desk mean.”

The moment I saw the photos, I nearly passed out. Professor Huphor lay in a pool of blood, impaled by a sceptre. On the desk before him were white runes, densely written. The sceptre was identical to the one held by the priestess in the photo from Huphor’s manuscript. The other photos were close-ups of the writing.

Dave snapped back to his senses. “But… to decipher them, we need to go out and consult materials. And if Travor is innocent, why can’t he leave? This isn’t legal procedure.”

The stout officer raised his voice. “What legal procedure! That kid Travor is slippery—can’t keep his mouth shut. If we let him out, who knows what kind of trouble he’ll cause! I’ll be honest with you—we brought him in on a warrant, and keeping him here for eight or ten days is perfectly within our rights. Don’t you two start getting clever on me. In short: can you decipher it or not?”

My hands and feet had gone cold to the point of cramping. Watching Travor sit there pitifully, without his usual joking, sarcastic manner, I felt a pang of sympathy.

Travor glanced at the officer, then fixed his eyes on me for a moment. Suddenly, in a very relaxed tone, he said, “Zhang, the officer told me earlier—I’m fine, don’t worry! The deciphering job—if you two want to do it, do it; if not, I’ll figure something out myself. It’s fine. And hey, Officer… let them go.”

The stout officer kept a straight face for a long while, then slowly closed his eyes without saying a word. He didn’t seem too pleased with what Travor had said.

Dave had been cowed by the shouting and seemed at a loss. He started giving me looks, asking if we should leave.

Seeing him like that, I got angry. I glared back at him fiercely and mouthed: That’s so uncool! After silently cursing him, I turned back to the photos on the table and studied them carefully for any familiar trace. The stout officer looked perfectly at ease, as if everything was under his plan.

“不能。”

“Officer,” I asked, “can I take these photos with me?”

“No.”

“Then how are we supposed to decipher it?”

“Memorise it.”

“What? How is that even possible…” My voice trailed off as I noticed him starting to close his eyes again. “Then leave,” he said quietly.

I was absolutely furious. He had me cornered—and Dave, looking relieved as if pardoned, was already preparing to slip away. I grabbed the photos, squinted, and began trying to imprint every single character into my memory.

Half an hour later, I dragged Dave—who looked like he’d been scared out of his wits—out of the police station. Before we left, the stout officer made a “zip your lips” gesture at us, then shot a sidelong glance at Travor. I understood: we were being blatantly threatened. We had to move fast and solve this as quickly as possible.

We headed straight to the library. I decided to start looking for clues from the earlier manuscripts.

Huphor Text 115-08

The weather in Tahillia is rather unstable, perhaps because it is located in the middle of the ocean (location pending confirmation). Sudden storms—pronounced something like Don Honmma in the local language—can catch you off guard. For this reason, my waterproof backpack was a crucial piece of personal property here. I noticed that although the locals don’t have much concept of private ownership, they understood that this oddly shaped bundle—Dhinga in the local tongue, roughly meaning “a container for holding things”—was extremely important to me, and they never tried to steal or take it.

By rough estimation, I had probably spent about six or seven months here by this point. The notebook originally intended for fieldwork records had temporarily become my “stranded-on-a-desert-island journal.” The natural conditions on this island are harsh, the level of technology primitive; the people still rely on traditional gathering and hunting for sustenance, with wild animals and insects as the main sources of protein (there is almost no stored preys in the tribe, and no knowledge of animal farming). I have not observed any cannibalistic practices or strong hostility among these people, though I am not sure whether that means I am safe. At the very least, my rescuers—Saqi Laham and her daughter Taya—are kind and eager to teach me their language. Their small home is a microcosm of the local settlement: a non-clan-based matrilineal society, which I have tentatively named an “Open Generational Matrilineal Group.”

Because my backpack had been soaked in seawater for a long time, its waterproof coating had gradually deteriorated due to repeated saltwater corrosion and sun exposure. I had to muster my courage and, in my halting Tahillia, ask the tribe for help. Holding up the backpack, I tried to explain to Saqi—though my language skills were not yet sufficient to convey the concept of “waterproof”—so I simply submerged it in a basin of water. When bubbles appeared, indicating it was leaking, I shouted “Neahye! Neahye!” (meaning: “No! No!”). Saqi laughed. Just then my neighbour Meng Laham happened to visit, and he gestured for me to follow him.

A side note: at first I thought Laham was a surname, and that Meng and Saqi were husband and wife, or brother and sister. Later I learned that Laham is simply an honorific suffix indicating respect and goodwill. Interestingly, when I asked what one must do to earn the title of Laham—was it killing a large animal? Teaching others? Being renowned? —the tribe members shook their heads. They said being a Laham is harder: it means being recognised by the tribe as a person of good character, kind and trustworthy, someone you can turn to when in difficulty. In my civilisation, titles of honour are usually given for fame, power, or wisdom; it is rare to see “good person” treated as such a distinction. This social consensus—prioritising something other than efficiency—may be one of the reasons this civilisation has remained “primitive,” but it is also, in its own way, rather romantic.

Meng Laham led me to his stone cottage, which contained many tools for repairs; I guessed he served as the tribe’s craftsman. His hands were massive and thick—comparable to a bear’s paw—each knuckle seemingly packed with powerful muscle, the result of daily labour for survival. This was my second time visiting Meng Laham’s home; I remembered a distinctive, deep scent hanging in the air, probably from leather, fur, or the glandular secretions of some animal. It was not unpleasant—on the contrary, it had a unique, masculine fragrance. I wondered to myself whether, in this matrilineal society, men needed to “adorn themselves” to gain mating rights. As it turned out, this was another of my mistaken assumptions. When he brought out a wooden box and opened the lid, I was certain that the dark brown, resin-like viscous substance inside was the source of the scent.

Meng indicated that I should apply it to the surface of my backpack. Then he said a long string of words I could not understand. Seeing my confusion, he took a piece of charred wood and began drawing on the ground. The drawing showed a creature resembling a beaver—called Gaga in Tahillia—building a dam in the middle of a river. Of course, there were slight differences in appearance due to the different environment, but based on its habits and general physical characteristics, it seemed to belong to a similar genus. He explained with gestures: this animal smears a special oil over its entire body, partly to mark its territory and warn off others, and partly because the oil has strong waterproofing properties. I asked if it was a medium-sized “large rat” with brown fur and rusty-coloured teeth. Meng shook his head, indicating that the animal’s fur was pale pink, leading me to infer provisionally that this beaver population was descended from albino migrants from the mainland.

I tried applying the ointment to my backpack. Meng continued his explanation: the substance in the wooden box was a compound recipe, made from this animal oil (Gaga lowy), carrot seed oil? (buguba lowy), and the mucus of a flower that grows among rocks (the record of this ingredient was lost). He said Gaga balm had many uses. When exposed to sunlight, it would form a hard, protective shell; mixed with tataco (a local pepper), it could be used as a kind of lacquer (keta). Heated, it became a softener (Siriel) and lubricant (flurail). It also had nutritional and medicinal value and served as an excellent base for preservatives.

He emphasised, however, that “preserving” was bad—fermentation was good. To alter the natural rhythm, he said, came at an equal cost. I thought perhaps he didn’t understand how important preservatives are in modern commercial society, so I tried to explain: preservation extends the shelf life of food, allows it to be eaten for longer, improves food utilisation, and conserves the tribe’s resources. He lowered his head and said nothing, just kept shaking it. Finally he said, if you’re hungry, go hunting. Then he pointed to his head and said to me, “Hu, don’t think too much.”

Huphor Text 115-08 ends

I closed my laptop. It was already early morning again. We’d been working non-stop for twenty-four hours and had nothing to show for it. Huphor had talked about efficiency… How were we supposed to be efficient? Meng had just said, “Don’t think too much…” Dave muttered that he couldn’t go on, that he needed to sleep and think again later. I felt like my brain had turned to mush too. Might as well sleep. Maybe after some rest, new ideas would come…

Chapter 10 Locust Flowers & Rambutan

The next morning, an idea suddenly struck me, jolting me awake from my dream. (Only then did I realise it wasn’t morning—it was already noon.) Maybe we shouldn’t be doing our research honestly in the library, looking at materials anyone could access. Maybe we should go to Huphor’s house instead—and see if there were any clues there. The thought startled me. I worried I was getting myself involved in something dangerous, that I was getting too close to it… I wasn’t sure what to do. Afraid I was being too rash, I decided to ask Dave, the conservative one, for his opinion. So I gave him a call.

“You’re finally awake.” The moment he picked up, he came at me aggressively. “Doesn’t seem like you’re all that worried about your Travor.”

“What do you mean, ‘your’? Don’t say stuff like that. He and I have nothing to do with each other. Simple classmates,” I said, emphasising the point.

“Right, simple classmates. So, what’s the plan today?”

I hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject, so I circled around it. “Sounds like you’re in good shape today. Recovered, have you?”

He really had recovered, pressing on relentlessly. “Come on, Zhang, just spit it out. What’s the plan? Yesterday I was—well, I’d never been through anything like that, was a bit stunned. But after sleeping on it, I’ve seen the light. Travor’s fine. Those cops were just trying to scare us and give us a job to do. They’re holding him there, feeding him well, treating him like a hostage. But the way I see it, they’ve been investigating this for ages, and coming to us means they’re pretty much out of ideas.”

“Yeah. Probably haven’t found anything,” I said, mulling over his words.

“So, you’re usually the one with the ideas. Do you think we should keep going to the library, fishing in the ocean?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “But aside from that, we need to do something else. Something a bit more… grey area. We do both ways, you know? If the west doesn’t light up, the east will. Get it?”

Half an hour later, Dave and I were standing dumbly outside Huphor’s house, hesitating, trying to come up with an excuse to go in. Dave scratched his head, clearly having second thoughts about this radical idea. “Actually, the professor’s wife is really nice… She’d be happy to see us visiting, right?” he mumbled.

“Happy? Professor Huphor hasn’t been gone that long. Besides, we’re not really here to see her.” I was already regretting having come up with such a foolish idea.

Just as we were wavering, I felt a strange sensation on my back. It was… as if someone was watching us from the shadows! I spun around sharply, but there was no one there.

“What’s wrong? What is it?” Dave asked nervously.

“Nothing. It felt like someone was nearby, watching us…”

“Where?” Dave cautiously looked around.

I yanked him hard. “Don’t look back!” I pulled him toward Huphor’s front door. “Even if someone is watching us, we can’t let them know we’ve noticed.”

I rang the bell. After a few rings, the professor’s wife opened the door.

She looked exhausted, still wearing her morning robe, as if she hadn’t had a good rest in a long time. “Hello, Professor’s wife. I’m Zhang. We’re Professor Huphor’s students. Um… we’re here because… well, for some special reasons, we wanted to visit you.” I decided to stop pretending and just tell her the truth. “Actually, we’re not here just to see you. We know you must be grieving, and we shouldn’t be disturbing you. But there’s something urgent—something important—and we were hoping you could help us.”

The professor’s wife listened calmly, then cast a gentle glance into the distance, as if letting her eyes adjust to the daylight. She looked back at me, her gaze unfocused, and spoke softly, almost murmuring: “Zhang, Travor. I knew you would come. Yes, just as we agreed. Come in with me.”

“Um, madam, actually I’m…” Dave awkwardly tried to correct his name.

I yanked him hard again and shot him a look to stop him from continuing.

But now we were the ones thoroughly confused. Dave and I looked at each other: what did she mean? She knew we were coming? We’d only just decided on a whim… All these events were so random—how could she have predicted it? Did she know Travor would come?

Inside Huphor’s house, the curtains were drawn tight, the light dim. Various things were piled up in a jumble, scattered messily everywhere. We followed cautiously behind the professor’s wife, afraid that we might damage an antique or a precious research sample.

As she walked, she spoke to us as if talking to herself: “All these years, I’ve been the one organising that bastard Huphor’s manuscripts. His mind started going years ago—he hasn’t been right for a long time. We tried treatment, I told all this to the police. But really, life and death don’t matter much to us anymore. He’s caused me so much trouble. This isn’t a home—it’s a junk shop, a damn landfill.” She grew angrier as she spoke.

I looked around. She was right. All kinds of strange objects, specimens, lay about in utter disorder, giving off a pungent mix of Formaline and musty decay. She continued, “That son of a bitch said that if one day I, the old lady, am too ill to manage, I’m to give all his miserable, unpublished, unsorted manuscripts to his students. Ridiculous. I don’t want to deal with this crap for one more day. Now that you’re finally here, I’ve had enough. Take it all. Today, you two—take all this junk and get it out of here.”

I tried to figure out whether her volatile temper was also influenced by Huphor. If only Travor were here, he’d surely be able to see through it. I quickly responded, “Of course, of course, madam. Don’t worry.” In my head, I was calming myself down: Zhang, don’t panic. Remember why you’re here.

“Madam, actually what we came for this time is… yes, right—you mentioned the unpublished manuscripts. We are his students, right, Travor?” I emphasised the name, raising an eyebrow at Dave.

“Oh, right… I’m Travor, madam. We’re here to get those… the remaining manuscripts…” Dave always seemed especially clumsy when he was flustered. Fortunately—though this isn’t a nice thing to say—the professor’s wife’s eyesight seemed to be failing. Dave and Travor looked nothing alike, yet she still mistook him.

“Come on, you brats. Follow me and carry them yourselves! Those worthless papers—if you’d come any later, I would’ve thrown them all out! No, burned them! They’re full of bugs, flying around in front of my eyes, driving me crazy!” As she spoke, she opened a small, inconspicuous door in the corner.

Inside the room, in stark contrast to the outside, it was as clean as a brand-new space. The windows were bright, the floors spotless. Manuscripts were sorted into folders by category. Though the quantity was vast, it was clear someone had put tremendous effort into organising them so meticulously. I looked at the room, then at the professor’s wife standing outside with her arms crossed, wearing an expression of utter disgust, not even wanting to look inside.

“Um…madam, are we really allowed to take these?” Dave asked cautiously.

The professor’s wife’s cloudy eyes widened, her chest heaving as she began to breathe heavily. One hand trembled as she gestured fiercely. “Bastards! Anyone who keeps talking can get the hell out! Take them! Take them all! No—burn them! Now! Right now, burn them all!” When she got agitated, her whole body shook. “Go! Get me a lighter, you brats! Get it!”

Sensing the situation was getting out of hand, Dave and I looked at each other, dashed into the room, grabbed the cardboard boxes inside, and started hauling them out. There were about eight or nine boxes in total. We made several trips each before we’d moved everything. And this was just the remaining manuscripts—the other research samples were piled up like trash throughout the entire house.

The professor’s wife seemed to have calmed down a bit. She sat on the sofa, her body still trembling slightly. “So much bullshit. Just move them out, that’s ok. Remember, come back in a few days and get the rest of this rubbish, these junk, out of here. Don’t leave it in my sight! Damn little flies! More and more! Annoying! Now get out.” We nodded repeatedly, promising to come back in a few days to move the remaining things.

As we left Huphor’s house and loaded the boxes of manuscripts into the car, I asked, “What do you think is going on with her? Was she always like this?”

Dave shook his head. “I don’t know. We’d have to ask Travor about that. But her eyes are definitely bad—floaters and severe loss of vision. I think she can only sense a little light now, maybe just some outlines of objects, but otherwise she’s lost pretty much of sight.”

“From crying over Professor Huphor’s death?”

“Hard to say. Aging can cause that too—macular degeneration, things like that. Add constant crying to it, it’d definitely get worse.”

“No, not her eyes. Her mood seems so volatile… Could it be that the professor’s wife…” I trailed off.

“Huh? What? You mean she’s the murderer?”

“Uh… forget it. Never mind. I might be just lack of sleep and overthinking.” Suddenly I felt a jolt, like an electric shock. “Wait. Something’s wrong.”

“What? Why are you so jumpy?” Dave stopped.

“ The boxes were all sealed back at the door, right? Take a look at these two!”

Dave leaned in to check. Among the boxes of manuscripts, two had been hastily slit open, as if someone had rifled through them. “Damn, you’re right. When did that happen? We weren’t gone long. Who did it?”

“I don’t know if anything’s missing. It was probably whoever was following us earlier, taking the chance while we were inside moving boxes…” I tried to piece things together. “Why were they following us? Could it be… the murderer? Who don’t want us to find key evidence?”

“Ah…?” Dave was at a loss. “So… are we in danger?”

“At this point, danger for sure. We can’t avoid it now. Worst case, we call the police… but at least it means coming to Huphor’s house to look for evidence was the right call. Maybe the answer isn’t far away.” To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure, but I had a vague idea: whoever was following us must also be looking for the secrets of Tahillia, the secrets of Huphor. Or maybe they were connected to his death. Time was tight. We need to decipher the symbols first, and get Travor out.

Back at the library, we divided up the work generally. I continued searching for clues in Huphor’s published texts, while Dave booked a separate meeting room and took charge of sorting through the boxes we’d brought back from Huphor’s house. Afterwards, we’d go through the new manuscripts together, combing them carefully.

Huphor Text 117-02

I’ve already spent too much time here. I urgently need to determine my geographical location before I can begin to find my way back. Recently I learned that there are locals skilled in boat navigation—primitive sailors, they call them Wayves—who can find their way without instruments, using only the stars, wind, waves, and other natural signs. When I went to visit them, they had already set out to sea and would not return for in a dozen days.

While waiting, I wandered around the village, looking for symbols that might help me understand where I was. The range of plant species here is vast—perhaps introduced or hybridised—so it’s difficult to judge by vegetation alone. Perhaps in the future, when I have the chance, I can discuss the flora with the locals.

During my wandering, one object caught my attention: cloth. Not that the weaving technique was particularly special—from touch, it seemed to be made of cotton or linen—but the textile pattern was distinctive, roughly as shown:

Weave pattern illustration

Beyond the weave, what drew my attention even more was the pattern stamped onto the fabric—perhaps a totem. Drawing on symbolic elements from other cultures, its meaning might be interpreted as sun and bountiful fruit, or perhaps in botanical terms, a capitulum and a spike or raceme.

Totem illustration

I tried asking the locals whether this pattern had any special significance. A fisherwoman named Rita took out several fruits that resembled rambutan and explained that in Tahillia culture, this design represented the god of sun, rambutan, femaleness, fertility, and so on. Meanwhile, the small spike or raceme next to it represented stars, locust flowers, maleness, harvest… This example suggested that this culture also has a certain dualistic root. As more examples accumulate, it becomes apparent that this rambutan-like fruit and the locust-flower-like pattern usually appear together, like spear and shield, sun and moon, ice and fire…

I took over the fruit, and Rita hinted me to peel and taste it. The flesh was translucent. Its aroma had a tartness reminiscent of rhubarb or gooseberries, very mouthwatering. Beyond the tartness, there was also a fresh, green scent of plant stems and leaves. With one bite, the juice filled my mouth, a blend of mangosteen and guava—tropical flavours that travelled from my mouth to my nasal passages. The flesh was full and had a satisfying crispness. What surprised me was that after chewing, it gave way to a rich sweetness, passionate and grandeur. In the aftertaste, a faint yellow floral fragrance lingered. This rambutan-like fruit was not the same as the rambutan I knew—in fact, I had never tasted any fruit so abundant, so abundant that I could almost taste its mood: warm, gentle, radiant. (For some reason, it made me nostalgic for my childhood. This wonderful fruit seemed to soothe and heal a distant sorrow.)

Just then, another fisherwoman beside me took out a bunch of locust flowers resembling those in the totem and pressed them into my hand. She spoke rapidly and gestured, indicating that I should give the flowers to the woman who had given me the fruit—Rita. Only then did I understood: here, if a woman gives a man a rambutan and he willingly eats it, it means that tonight, he will be hers. And giving locust flowers means he will offer his life seeds.

P.S. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I was so shocked that I fled on the spot. All I got in return was their laughter. Fortunately, no one forced the issue or brought it up afterwards. I avoided them for a week. Then one day I ran into Rita, she acted as if nothing had happened—she greeted me warmly, then turned and walked away. For a long time afterwards, this haunted me. On the one hand, I felt I had lost my “masculine prowess”; on the other, I was genuinely concerned about hygiene. Having lived in very different environments, the viruses and antibodies we carry are vastly different. This is not just a matter of my own safety—it’s also being responsible to the other tribe people. The fisherwoman was beautiful, but still… I need to find a way back as soon as possible. I need to get back alive.

Huphor Text 117-02 ends

This reminded me of something I’d read in a book by the Canadian anthropologist and ethnobotanist Wade Davis. He once visited the legendary botanist Federico Medem in Villavicencio, in the northwestern Amazon basin, a 15-centimetre quartz crystal strung on a palm-fibre cord was among his collection—a shaman’s necklace from a local tribe, said to represent the god of sun’s penis and crystallised semen.

If that region’s totemic worship is male-oriented, Tahillia’s totem is female-oriented. They believe the god of sun corresponds to the ovum. (Though it’s unclear how their level of scientific understanding allowed them to discover and comprehend the existence of egg cells, or to observe that egg cells resemble the sun and rambutan. Reading to this point, however, I think purely in terms of resemblance, the “god of sun” is more appropriately female—and the ovum, which nurtures all things, gives birth to all things, how could one not wish to revere it as a god?)

I suddenly realised I had been pulled back into the world of Huphor’s manuscripts again. These texts were like a vortex, capable of drawing me in no matter when. It seemed the chances of finding clues in the older documents were slim. I picked up my phone and messaged Dave, asking how the sorting was going. Two seconds later, Dave called.

“Zhang”

“Zhang.”

“Get to the point.”

“Nothing. Let’s go eat. I’m hungry.”

“I’m not hungry. Are you done sorting? I’ll come get them if you are. Listen, we’re pulling an all-nighter tonight. Travor can’t stay in there forever.”

“Come on, he’s in there eating the good foods, while we’re out here doing the dirty work. Can’t we at least get a decent meal?”

“…No. Once we get him out safely, I’ll cook. I’ll give you a real meal.”

“Uh… are you sure? Will it be safe to eat? Won’t it upset my stomach?”

“Ha! You clearly don’t know much about Chinese women’s cooking skills.”

Dave sounded dubious. “It’s just… the way you said ‘a real meal’ didn’t sound quite right…”

I fell silent, suddenly feeling drained. Maybe it was the lack of sleep over the past few days—I wasn’t in the mood for his jokes. Sensing my low spirits, he quickly got serious. “Well… I’ve finished sorting. And I’ve actually made a bit of progress. Maybe you should come take a look.”

I wanted to kick him. He always left the important things for last. “Don’t move. I’m coming. C102, right?”

“Right. The room next to the broken printer.”

Chapter 11 Linden Flower & Honey, Gewürztraminer Cider / The Person Following Us in the Shadows is Philip’s Student / Deciphering the Spell

Huphor Unpublished Manuscript, Temporary No. 20250927001, Timeline Uncertain

During the rainy season on Tahillia Island, wind-chill is a problem the locals must face and overcome. Heavy rainfall causes temperatures to drop sharply, the persistent daytime heat cut off by clouds. With no medical facilities available, it’s impossible to tell whether seasonal viral infections occur. The cold causes many tribe members to develop coughs, body aches, and fevers. In such conditions, retreating into the forest floor’s fallen leaves is not advisable—and as it turns out, the locals don’t do that either. They have a different weapon against the cold, a kind of gift from nature.

Thanks to Saqi, I finally found a long-lost form of healing on this island: hot springs. They were quite a distance from the settlement. Already weakened by the cold, I had to travel for over two days through wind and rain, until, just as I was on the verge of collapse, I arrived. Saqi said my body was more fragile than others, that few people developed such severe symptoms when the rainy season came. But I understood that I hadn’t yet developed antibodies to this unfamiliar environment. Any Tahillians entering a city would face a similar situation, if not worse.

From several kilometres away, the natural mineral hot springs gave off a faint scent of sulphur. The closer I got, the more I felt the temperature rising. By then, the rain had gradually subsided from a downpour to a fine mist. The air was crisp and sweet, and my body already felt much better. As I drew near, I saw that the locals had even built a small wooden shelter over the springs to block the wind. The roof was layered with banana leaves, and the thick wooden pillars were coated with crystallised oils, giving off a deep scent like ebony. At first I thought the structure was simply for shelter, but when Saqi led me inside, I realised there was more to it.

The spring’s outlet was surrounded by stones, the stones covered in thick moss and lichen. A winding, muddy path led from my feet to the spring’s entrance. The mud was terracotta red, mixed with fallen leaves and humus; barefoot, it felt almost body temperature, extremely soft. Inside the wooden hut, there were many primitive runes painted with white tree-sap pigment. Saqi explained that the runes had different meanings. The most central phrase was what the locals called the most potent spell. (Pronounced: Tun ba / Mu wua / Humulla // Tun ba / Mu wua / Tushi Taba // Wu le Ha wa… It roughly translates to: “Spirit like water flows and shifts in an instant, like ripples I follow the surge and move forward, and help him go.”) In simple terms, it’s a kind of blessing or magical empowerment—when one’s will is strong enough, what they wish will come true. It’s meant to infuse energy into travelers or invalids who have come this far in a state of extreme weakness.

According to Tahillian’s experience, once the rainy season begins, a fire-stone basin is lit in the spring hut—somewhat like a Finnish sauna in modern civilisation, though the heated stones are not the primary source of warmth; the steam from the spring and the hut’s heat-retaining effect are enough to make the temperature pleasantly steamy. (In this respect, it’s actually closer to a steam house.) The main purpose of the fire-stone basin is to release the effectiveness of medicinal herbs. The traditional local recipe involves mixing linden flowers with honey, adding ramie leaves and bauhinia vine, then heating them. The Tahillian people believe that the intoxicating fragrance released by the plants opens the pores, allowing the cold to dissipate. As the dampness is expelled, the medicinal properties penetrate the body and take effect.

This method of administering medicine through steam rather than ingestion is very ancient. Traditional European linden flower tea is indeed known for inducing sweat and dispelling cold—a curious convergence. I soaked in the spring wearing a linen undergarment, the fabric billowing and floating on the water. The heat enveloped me, raising goosebumps for a moment. I tried to relax, letting myself go limp in the spring, breathing deeply the herbal scent of linden flower and honey rising from the fire-stone basin. My tense nerves loosened, my pores gradually opened, and fine beads of sweat emerged from my skin, from my forehead.

According to local custom, in the spring hut they close their eyes and meditate on animals and plants with which they have formed connections. Through this connection, they reawaken the primal forces of nature to help their body’s cells repair and regenerate—that is, animals and plants that once threatened their lives, or that they have hunted and eaten. I understood this as a process that stimulates dopamine and adrenaline by recalling intense experiences, though it’s not something I could easily explain to them. Soon, Saqi fetched a clay pot from the back of the hut, scooped some liquid with a wooden ladle into a small stone bowl, and urged me to drink.

At first I thought it was some kind of herbal medicine again, until I saw her smiling face and realised—it was an alcohol? Wine, indeed. Under its influence, my fine sweat turned into large droplets running down my temples. Saqi said it was wild fruit wine, made by fermenting a mix of various fruits together. Drinking some would replenish fluids and further expel the cold wind from my body. I tried to distinguish the different notes. Truly, the plants of Tahillia all seemed to carry the spirit of nature—everything was so sweet, so full, so richly scented. I would call this bowl of mixed fruit wine Gewürztraminer Cider. With one sip, an overwhelming, magnificent wave of rose and pomegranate fragrance washed over me. The fleshy, sweet lychee notes added a touch of playfulness, and only then did I realise—what lingered on my palate was apple cider, its high acidity and sweetness restoring my energy in an instant.

Only after a while did I dimly recognise that it was not only wine but also medicine—part of the treatment, part of the steam therapy. My skin flushed with heat, and the headache that had been trapped within me gradually dispersed under the influence of the alcohol, drifting away. Saqi helped me put on a thick robe of animal hide and pointed me to the adjacent hut, telling me to get some sleep. A good sleep, then return the next day.

…… to be continue......