I have practiced ancient Chinese feng shui for many years. Now that I have washed my hands of it for good, there are truths I must speak — truths that, if left unsaid, would not let me rest in peace when my time comes.
Walking away
One night, I sat alone in a dimly lit hall. Before me was an old brass basin, scratched with age, half-filled with clear water. Outside, a black Rolls-Royce had been waiting for three hours. For the third time, a man came to knock on my door, holding a black umbrella. Even through the wooden door, I could hear the urgency — and the temptation — in his voice.
“Master Chen, if you will only come out of retirement and choose this burial site, five million in cash is already waiting in the car. Our boss says the price can go even higher.” I looked into the basin and saw my own face — lined, worn by years. Then I picked up my dragon-seeking rod, made of golden nanmu wood, which had followed me for four decades, along with my family’s handwritten copy of The Secret Sayings of the Green Satchel.
Without hesitation, I threw them into the fire. The flames leaped up, lighting my dim but resolute eyes. “Go back,” I said calmly. “Tell your boss — tonight, I wash my hands of this trade. From this day on, there is no more ‘Master Chen’ in the world.” Their footsteps faded into the night, reluctant and unwilling. I slowly placed my hands into the cold water, washing away the incense ash and soil embedded in my skin. As the ripples spread, forty years of memories rose before me, one after another.
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