Ask of Ancestor
It’s the *jiaobei*, a ritual that all Fujianese people have known since childhood, like tying their shoes or avoiding the rain. Two smooth, crescent-shaped wooden blocks, carved from camphor wood. Some simply call them “the cups.”
You hold them in your hands, close your eyes, formulate a question, then drop them.
One flat side, one rounded side. The answer changes depending on how they fall.
Two flat sides: no.
Two rounded sides: the laughter of the gods.
One of each: yes.
You do it twice a year. Qingming and the winter solstice. Same altar, same setup. Whole chicken, steamed fish, braised pork belly, rice cakes, candied kumquats, three cups of tea, three cups of rice wine... and sometimes a bowl of noodles, for longevity.
The incense burns slowly. You kneel. Your forehead touches the ground. The smoke rises, thick, then disperses. You wait.
You bring golden paper, incense sticks. You offer them to the ancestors, to the household deities. You hold the blocks, whisper the question, then drop them. The sound is dry.
A first answer. Then another.
An old man watches, observes the result, then makes a sign. He explains, without raising his voice. No certainty, just a direction.
You start again. The gestures are the same. The hands, the breath, the movement.
The sound returns.
One side. Then the other.
An answer.
