Over the past two years, I'd learned some feng shui basics from Grandpa. Clutching his compass and a wick lamp, I followed the man out. Seeing his Audi parked outside the neighborhood, I secretly congratulated myself for reading his (facial features) right. On the road, I learned he was Mr. Liu, sixty-two years old.
Studying his "children and grandchildren" facial zone, I saw auspicious red hues—clear signs of offspring thriving. This confused me: with such a fortunate ancestral grave omen, why would he want to relocate it?
Holding Grandpa's tools, I was terrified of botching the job and tarnishing his reputation. My confusion peaked when he parked near Tuanjie Reservoir.
I'd visited here as a child with my parents. Before us lay a vast barley field; nowhere did it resemble a feng shui treasure spot. According to The Book of Burial, "Qi dissipates with wind, stops at water"—this was an ominous site. The riverfront's open terrain allowed harsh winds to howl through, and the reservoir's annual drownings bred lingering (resentment). Such a place could even cause "corpse shade," dooming descendants to decline or even extinction. It had nothing to do with good feng shui.
Puzzled, I asked, "Mr. Liu, is this the treasure spot you mentioned?"
He gestured to the hundred-meter area ahead, urging, "Yes, young master. Just pick a spot. My feng shui master had an emergency, but the grave relocation can't wait. Help me out."
I explained my inexperience, but he insisted his master— a renowned Shanghai expert—couldn't be wrong. Torn, I recalled Grandpa's words: a man must act with integrity. I couldn't pick an ominous spot. But when Mr. Liu added another 2,000 yuan, greed clouded my judgment. What if he finds someone else who ruins his family's fate? I thought. Maybe I can find a compromise.
With that, I told Mr. Liu to stand back, lit the long-burning lamp (a bronze oil lamp), and began searching. The more I looked, the more alarmed I grew: Tuanjie Reservoir sat on flat land, prone to flooding that could wash away the grave. Where was the feng shui here?
From 1 PM to nearly 4 PM, I finally stopped at a mound by the shore. The Book of Burial states, "Where earth bears auspicious qi, it rises like a pearl, shaped like fish or turtles."
I placed the lamp before the mound; its flame didn't flicker, untouched by the river wind—proof of (gathering qi and blocking wind). Though rabbits had burrowed into the mound's side, I thought it suitable for a tomb. Just as I was about to point out the spot, Grandpa appeared, his face stormy. He dragged me away, cursing Mr. Liu for his wickedness, even spitting at the Audi before leading me to Liujia Gangzi Village. "We'll talk at home," he said gravely.
Like a scolded child, I dared not breathe. I later saw Grandpa was familiar with the villagers; the village chief even offered his son's car to drive us back to Shenyang.
Once home, Grandpa fumed, "That goddamn bastard almost got you killed!"
I recounted everything, and he berated my inexperience—though I'd somehow guessed the true spot. The mound was a feng shui treasure, and the rabbit hole was the exact "dragon eye."
I was confused: Soil holds qi; a hole leaks it. Grandpa rapped my head with his pipe. "Books are just references. That spot is called 'Jade Rabbit and Toad Palace.' The entire reservoir is a giant rabbit, with a toad chasing its hind legs (check Baidu Maps). Because 'a crafty rabbit has three dens,' any spot within (hundred meters) can be a dragon eye."
This was the vital qi point of Liaozhong County. The rabbit's movement dispersed qi to the county, but tomb placement would lock the rabbit and toad, trapping qi—blessing the tomb owner with unmatched official luck. Throughout history, the gravest taboo in feng shui is seeking official luck through tombs, for it defies heaven's will and invites retribution. Mr. Liu had approached Grandpa before, but Grandpa saw through the scheme—no experienced feng shui master would do it, so he targeted me, a novice. "What happens if I'd picked it?" I asked. "At best, blindness or lifelong disability; at worst, death on the spot," he said.
I cursed Mr. Liu's ancestors inwardly. Grandpa said no more, but the next morning, he asked if I wanted to learn feng shui properly.
I'd been eager for this. Before I could agree, Grandpa sighed: "Dabao, I didn't want you to learn because of the karma from my years of finding tombs and removing curses. The world is fickle—even if you don't mean to harm, others will harm you. I'll teach you, but you must promise me one thing."