Onstage, I sing of the living world. Below, the audience is made up of the dead.
The gongs and drums are an invitation, the singing a command. With a sweep of my water sleeves, I brush away both dust and dark energy.
Every gesture and every line can summon the gods and subdue ghosts.
Painted masks and water sleeves are all protective implements of the Way.
When the song ends, if the audience does not leave, then I am the one who goes.
My fellow performers say I've taken too narrow a path, that I only know how to lay souls to rest and not how to raise ghosts.
But they don't know that once one of the three forbidden operas of the Zhou family begins, who will answer the call: a god, or...
