he sees me. i feel exposed, but also adrift in a wondrous sleep. relief bubbles inside me at the sight of him, but also the deep simmer of dread, a pit in the gut that heaves and weighs me down so that i squat when i walk and hobble about like a bat with pinned wings. the earth is poison here. everywhere i turn i see faces of the dead, putrid flesh of children, blackened tortured faces. i see skulls that bud and bloom on dead branches. i see old men in trees, swinging for freedom. we all drift mad this way and that. the devil set us free, released us from the hole, all for the sport of watching him catch us.

zhong kui steps forward into the night, armoured cheek bones, cold and sharp as steel. a chest plate cups the barrel and flank. it bears the imperial dragon. the face is confident, determined, eyes two black inflections. a falcon steadies itself on a dying branch. its talons crush the rotted wood. the bird led him here.

the wizard advances. his skirt parting at the knee reveals battle armor beneath. he steps out onto the ledge, as far as he can go before the ground gives way to a craggy slough. behind his back he heaves his sword with both hands, ready in a moment to lash out at the dark.

in hell, all know the story of zhong kui. demons and ghosts whisper his name and learn to dread the open air, the passageway, the great up and beyond, the return. zhong came to the capital with his friend the country doctor to sit for the imperial exam, and though he came first rank among the jìnshì, the emperor refused to grant the honor. this man is too ugly, the emperor sneered, he’s the face of a dog, of a monkey, of an oxen’s asshole! the shame drilled itself into the flats of zhong’s palms. it inserted itself like needles into his eyes. he threw himself against the emperor’s palace gates. over and over and over he did this, until his head ruptured and burst. the country doctor buried his friend’s body, and zhong descended down to hell where the devil judged him a fit and useful fool. he is to be put to sport, the devil sneered. and that is how zhong kui became hunter of the dark, magi of midnight, king of ghosts.

at the sight of him, we the dead and dying kick up our heels and take to the air to float in free form among the mists of the gorge below. for what can zhong kui do but bide his time and wait for us to come down again?