Luzon Mask

3.Mid-Autumn Memorial

At dawn, the gates of the Ling family villa slowly opened. Two teams of burly men in black uniforms and sunglasses emerged as if from the earth, jogging in unison from both sides of the courtyard. They crossed the stone path and lined up at the entrance. At the steward’s command, the teams split and boarded the waiting vans.

Meanwhile, the faint hum of wheels echoed along the inner courtyard’s cobblestone path. Several black luxury sedans glided out, their windows draped with dark veils, as if separating the realms of the living and the dead. Through the shifting shadows of the veils, the Lin family daughters could be faintly seen.

Wearing half-hollowed masks, clad in plain white gowns, with black sashes and white flowers pinned to their chests, they sat solemnly, like mournful statues. From a distance, their expressions were indistinguishable, as if a single face had been replicated, creating an eerie illusion: perhaps they were one and the same.

The convoy rolled out of the estate, splitting off at different intersections. The daughters, representing the family and their father, Ling Jiagong, headed to the city’s ancestral halls, clan homes, and hillside cemeteries to perform ancient rituals. It was a day marked on the lunar calendar as ideal for honoring the departed.

Meanwhile, Ling Jiagong had already arrived at the Red Gate Clubhouse in the old city—the helm of Song Island’s branch of the Tengu Society.

The pyramid-shaped building stood quietly at the end of a secluded street. Unassuming yet imbued with a heavy, grounded aura, it bore a crescent-shaped wooden plaque, weathered and ancient, as if dropped from a bygone era. Four white marble pillars stood guard, etched with the mottos of Song Island’s four major Chinese clans, each word weighty.

The vermilion eaves, adorned with hanging bells, chimed in the breeze, as if summoning spirits. The heavy wooden doors, carved with intricate reliefs, signaled that entry was not to be taken lightly.

Every Mid-Autumn Festival, the clubhouse hosted a ritual called “Moon-Sacrifice Soul-Return,” a tradition tracing back centuries. Long ago, craftsmen and merchants who ventured to these foreign lands often died far from home, their souls adrift. The soul-return ceremony was established to comfort these lonely spirits, offering incense and a path home during the reunion of the full moon.

As incense smoke rose, the clubhouse’s hall fell into silence. Dim light bathed the space, and the chanting of sutras flowed like a gentle stream, lingering in every corner.

Today’s soul-return ritual was both a memorial and a silent battleground. Participants circled the square altar in slow steps, symbolizing inheritance and guardianship, as well as the shifting tides of authority. Ten years ago, at this very altar, a fierce power struggle within the Tengu Society had erupted, culminating in Ling Jiagong’s rise to president—a position he still held.

Upon taking leadership, Ling Jiagong’s first decree was that all participants must wear masks. This erased distinctions of rank and status, rendering everyone as “kindred” shadows—nameless, faceless. Beneath masks and robes, true identities were concealed, quelling unnecessary conflicts.

Yet, whoever stood at the altar’s center seemed to hold a key to the soul’s realm—and the right to speak.

“Though souls cannot return to their homeland, they must be guided by incense.”

The earliest settlers in the South Seas were stonemasons and carpenters. With no temples to worship or graves to tend, they revered their “master’s tools” as divine. They often said, “Our master is the mender on the moon. Dozing while repairing it, he fell to earth.”

Thus, the Red Gate’s Tengu Society claimed to be the oldest of all sects.

“We mend the houses of men and guard the souls of fate.”

The bell tolled, and chants reverberated through the hall. Black curtains rose slowly from the corners, golden embroidery glinting on dark satin. The room plunged into darkness, save for the flickering candlelight.

Outside, women bustled with preparations. Elderly women cooked tangyuan and baked mooncakes, the scents of osmanthus, lotus paste, and sesame mingling with the warmth of firewood. Young girls polished fruit trays, arranging exotic fruits in neat rows. Incense burners were lit, their flames dancing like fallen stars.

Children huddled under the corridor, watching the masked, robed adults with a mix of curiosity and fear. A little girl clutched a flower lantern, softly humming, “The crescent moon shines over the land…” Her voice was delicate, like a breeze rustling through branches.

As dusk fell, the silver moon rose higher, a radiant lamp in the sky. The fragrance of osmanthus and other blossoms filled the air, while the alley beyond the courtyard lay silent, broken only by occasional dog barks or the tinkle of wind chimes.

Several elderly women stood by the curtains, peering toward the hall, hearing only the deep toll of bells and mournful chants.

—An old man’s voice, heavy with grief, murmured like a sob, carrying the weight of lifetimes.

—Another, younger man’s voice wailed, as if releasing boundless solitude.

This year’s ceremony lingered longer than usual, so prolonged it stirred unease, yet more solemn than ever.

Everyone knew this ritual wasn’t just for the dead but also for those alive yet unable to return, reserving a place for them.

The Mid-Autumn moonlight bathed the women’s heads, a gentle summons—or perhaps a fated farewell.

In the kitchen, flames flickered. An old woman’s eyes reddened at the courtyard’s edge. “My Ahai… he was on that ship…”

The others listened quietly as she continued, “Before he left, he told me to save him a piece of taro cake for Mid-Autumn. He loved it since he was a boy.”

“People are the same everywhere,” another said softly. “Festivals mean eating what you loved as a child.”

A young wife added, “Brother Ahai was kind, always looking out for others.”

The old woman didn’t reply, gazing at the moon. “This year’s moon is bigger than ever… I’ll pretend he’s watching me too.”

Children gathered around, some leaning on her legs, others hiding behind her.

The hall’s bell ceased, leaving only the candles flickering on the altar. The women hurriedly carried offerings inside, then hung red palace lanterns from the eaves, each inscribed with four words: Light the Way Home.

The breeze swayed the lanterns, their glow casting shadows on faces, like an old dream stirring awake.

Communal activities followed—feasting, lantern-floating, riddle-guessing. Families sat in the courtyard, eating mooncakes under the moon, their joy tempered by the night. As distant thunder rumbled, murmurs of an approaching storm sent everyone scrambling to pack up and head home.

At midnight, the Ling villa’s red lanterns lit up one by one, stretching from the eaves to the courtyard and deep into the lawn, glowing like a coiling serpent.

At the hour of the Rat, the estate’s gates opened again.

From the great house emerged a dozen girls, no longer in their daytime attire. They wore Chinese robes embroidered with cloud patterns and birds, their hems carrying an incongruous festive air. Wrapped in fragrant silk sashes, they moved slowly in formation, like souls awaiting passage across a river.

Each held a smiling mask, carved from light wood and polished like porcelain. Though painted in different colors, every mask bore the same exaggerated smile—upturned lips, arched brows, both jubilant and faintly sinister. Staring too long evoked sadness.

It was said that the dead return reluctantly, and the living, fearing their fear, hide behind smiling masks. This allows families one last night together, letting the spirits depart in peace.

With a smiling face, we welcome the returned.

The girls walked slowly to the courtyard’s center. The night breeze swept through the corridor, carrying the sound of copper bells and distant, muffled tolls, as if rising from the earth’s core.

Rose, Briar, and Jasmine stood among the girls, each clutching a mask.

As they donned their masks, their vision seemed veiled in gray. The lantern light grew distant, and the movements of those around them slowed. Their own breathing echoed behind the masks, like gasps from a deep well.

The girls began to dance, performing an ancient ritual from Southeast Asian memorials. They raised hands, turned, and stepped lightly on their toes, as if walking on water.

Someone sang—a low chant, almost a spell: “With a smiling face, I greet the returning soul, living a cycle in your stead…”

“If you know me, keep my name in your heart.”

“Beneath this mask, there is no me, only you.”

As Jasmine moved with the dance, she felt the ground soften beneath her feet, as if something stirred below, tugging at her legs, hindering her steps.

The wind slipped into her sleeves, carrying the scent of old paper and ash.

Suddenly, the faces of her twin brothers, lost ten years ago, flickered before her. They’d left without a word. She’d only seen them once in a dream, standing hand-in-hand outside the old Lin family manor, silent. She’d whispered through the door, “Don’t go.” In the dream, she wasn’t sure if she meant she didn’t want them to leave—or feared letting them in.

As she opened her eyes, the drumbeat stopped.

The world stilled. The lanterns ceased swaying, the performance reaching its end, the actors frozen, awaiting the curtain’s fall.

Jasmine longed to remove her mask but found it stuck, immovable, as if tearing it off would rip her skin.

“You’ve returned in his place,” a voice whispered in her ear. “Now it’s your turn to stay.”

She spun around, only to see the other girls turn in unison, their smiling masks facing her, silent.

Jasmine felt it wasn’t them smiling but something else—behind them, within the masks, within their very bodies—grinning at her.

Her vision darkened, and she collapsed to her knees.

When she opened her eyes, the courtyard was empty.

She stood in place, her mask split horizontally, its smile fractured. As the wind rose, extinguishing the last lantern, a voice declared:

“The soul’s return is complete. The living must not linger.”

From the great house, her father’s anguished cry rang out, deafening as a tolling bell: “My sons! Return!”

At cockcrow, Jasmine took a step, still feeling the force that had gripped her legs the night before, though its hold had weakened.

The surroundings were calm, as always.

Silence enveloped her, deathly still.

She kicked off her shoes, sensing something heavy, like lead, clinging to her legs.

Barefoot, she ran out of the Ling family gates.