Chapter 243: Bronze Drum Array Ritual

The threshing floor, twelve ancestral bronze drums arranged left and right, their sun motifs polished to a gleam, each inscribed with Yao script.

At the center of the drum array stood a twelve-foot oxhide drum, its body dark brown, stretched with aged water buffalo hide. Before it, an incense altar burned three tall incense sticks, their blue smoke rising straight upward. On the altar lay glutinous rice, a wild boar's head, rice wine, and bundles of golden rice stalks.

"Hum~"

At that moment, a deep horn sounded. Two bare-chested elders, their waists wrapped in blue cloth, strained their breath and blew into ox-horn trumpets—the notes low and mournful, one long, one short—signaling the official start of the Bai Ku Yao summer ritual.

As the horn faded, the hide drum sounded first. The lead drummer was the village elder, over seventy, hunched but no longer the frail, trembling figure he'd been days ago. His eyes blazed with vigor. Dressed in Bai Ku Yao attire, he gripped the drumsticks and brought them down hard upon the hide drum—"Dong!"

The drumbeat rolled like thunder across the ridges.

Immediately after, the twelve bronze drums erupted in unison. Each drum was played by two: one in front, striking the sun motif at the center with a mallet—"Tang—Tang—" sharp and piercing; the other behind, holding a wooden wind barrel, pressing its mouth against the drum's cavity at rhythm and yanking it away sharply—the cavity resonating like distant thunder—"Weng—Long—" high and low, crisp and deep, weaving into a seismic wave that made the ground beneath tremble.

Beyond these, others struck bamboo clappers to keep time, while some wore copper bells at their waists, jingling as they moved.

As the drum array began, the villagers, dressed in Bai Ku Yao traditional attire, stepped one by one into the center of the threshing floor.

Qin Yun stood at a distance, feeling the unique ethnic rhythm—a pulse slowly forming beneath his feet. The songwriting skill he'd thought useless now seemed to be doing something, though he couldn't yet tell what.

Bai Ku Yao women wore black dresses with indigo and white totem patterns on cuffs and hems, their heads adorned with many ornaments that chimed as they walked; men wore short blue-green tunics and white pants, their hair bound with headscarves and feet shod in straw sandals.

As the men and women entered, the lead drummer—the village elder—began to dance first.

He hunched his back, bent his knees, lowered his frame, elbows bent, suddenly scratching his ears, shrugging his shoulders, blinking like a curious monkey peering out; then leaping up, arms swinging like a monkey climbing branches, tracing arcs through the air; then crouching, spinning, tapping his drumsticks on the ground, mimicking monkeys foraging and playing—his movements rugged, swift, forceful, yet perfectly timed, each step landing precisely on the beat.

He danced while drumming, the rhythm shifting with his steps. Qin Yun knew this was ancient, unchanged for generations: the Fourteen Steps, Seventy Beats.

Qin Yun leaned close to Su Huan's ear: "A few days ago, the elder was barely able to walk. Now he's so lively—he's more energetic than any youth."

Su Huan smiled: "Do you understand the meaning of conserving energy?"

As the elder's solo dance reached its peak, the drumbeat changed, and all villagers began circling the drum array, holding hands, stepping in rhythm—old and young, men and women, turning in a circle. Steps were simple: one step, pause; two steps, spin; bodies swaying with the beat, arms swinging forward and back.

Women's pleated skirts fluttered like butterflies; men's white pants swayed like clouds.

They hummed low, no lyrics, only deep, resonant "Huh—Huh—"

The sound waves merged with the drums, creating a profoundly stirring effect.

But it wasn't over. Outside the drum circle, several young men had prepared spinning tops, whipping their ropes to make the tops spin wildly, humming as they spun. Some knelt on one knee, bending low to circle the tops; others tossed and caught them mid-air, spinning them in flight—moves daring, precise, swift.

As the drumbeats and sound waves rose and fell in twelve waves over an hour, the village shaman entered.

He wore a black robe, a wooden mask, and carried a small bronze drum and rice stalks, dancing alone at the center of the drum array.

His dance differed from the others—slow, mysterious, his voice hoarse and low, blending with the drums as if communicating with spirits, pleading for something.

Thus, the bronze drum ritual continued until the sun slanted westward, the drumbeats gradually slowing, until it slowly ended.

"Weng—"

The ox-horn trumpet sounded again. The twelve bronze drums rang one final time, their echoes lingering around the mountains for a long while. All stood solemn, heads bowed, hands clasped. The incense smoke curled gently; the rice stalks swayed in the wind.

With the ritual fully concluded, Qin Yun shut off his device and returned with Su Huan to Lan Duo's home.

At this time, only Lan Duo and the yellow dog remained in the house.

Seeing Qin Yun and Su Huan enter, the yellow dog trotted over, tail in mouth.

Qin Yun gently patted the dog's head: "Da Huang, is Duo Duo behaving well?"

"Wang wang—!"

Inside the house, Duo Duo lay in bed. Seeing them enter, she couldn't help but smile.

At this moment, Duo Duo's cheeks were sunken, her entire body reduced to little more than a skeleton—her life's countdown had turned fully red; death could come at any moment.

"Duo Duo, how are you feeling?"

Duo Duo nodded, whispering: "Not bad, Brother Qin Yun. Was the bronze drum ritual lively?"

Qin Yun brushed his hand across her face and smiled: "Yes, very lively. And I've thought of a way to help Jiaping Village."

Duo Duo's eyes lit up: "Really, Brother Qin Yun?"

A flicker of surprise passed through Su Huan's eyes.

Qin Yun nodded firmly: "Of course. I don't lie. Give me a few days—I'll finish it soon, then I'll let you see it. You'll understand then."

"Mm, thank you, Brother Qin Yun."

"Rest well."

Qin Yun and Su Huan left Duo Duo's room. Su Huan asked curiously: "What are you going to do?"

"Jiaping Village has almost nothing worth promoting—everything they have, other Bai Ku Yao groups have too. So we need to add something external."

He looked at Su Huan and said, "I'm going to write a song."

"..."

Su Huan blinked, reached out, and touched Qin Yun's forehead.

Whispered: "You're not feverish. Why are you talking nonsense?"

Qin Yun grabbed her hand: "I'm serious."

"When did you learn to write songs? Do you even understand staff notation or music?" Su Huan's skepticism was unmistakable.

Qin Yun couldn't say he'd just learned it a few days ago—it wouldn't be believed.

"I liked music in high school. I taught myself for a while. I even wrote songs back then. I just didn't keep at it—if I had, I'd be a great composer now."

"Keep making it up!"

Qin Yun sighed.

"Wait. When I finish, then you can dismiss it."

"Hmph. I'll wait."

…

Two days later, Qin Yun completed his song—lyrics, composition, arrangement—all done. The village elder, who had been the first to know Qin Yun's plan, felt honored.

"I'm going back to town. Elder, recommend one man and one woman for me. I'll record them, then rehearse."

The elder nodded and quickly summoned two villagers in their thirties.

The man was Luo Shigen; the woman was Meng Jiumei.

Su Huan stayed behind in the village. Qin Yun left Jiaping Village with the two.

After Qin Yun departed, the elder, leaning on his cane, returned to his frail, aged appearance, and went to Lan Duo's home.

"Elder!"

Lan Duo's grandparents hurried to greet him.

"Go about your business," the elder waved them off. "I've come to speak with Lan Duo."

Lan Duo's grandparents exchanged glances and ushered him in. Inside, Su Huan was chatting with Lan Duo, telling stories about Qin Yun—one speaking, one listening; Lan Duo's mood was clearly bright.

Seeing Lan Duo's condition, the elder sighed inwardly, deeply saddened.

What a wonderful girl—how could this happen… Sigh…