Pema stood with the five others in her group. Heads bowed, they inhaled the burning smoke that rose from the small fire in the center of the room. Head swimming, they rose their hands as one, chanting.

“Spirits of my ancestors, hear me. Spirits of the earth, hold me fast. Spirits of the air, fill my body with life, that I may give life to my people. Grandfather, I am coming to you!”

Each called to a family member, either one they had known, now joined to the Heavenly court, or for some a fabled ancestor, famous for some great deed, who they identified with. Pema could think of nothing but her grandfather, his kind face, his worried, grief stricken eyes the first time she had found herself called to be here, several years ago.

***

“Grandfather, come on. You’ll be late for the Choosing.”

The slow thunk thunk thunk of oak on stone preceded his entrance to the small living room where the family waited.

“Pem, be patient. If it is my day to join the spirits, they can wait for my old bones.”

With this, he bowed to the small shrine along the wall, pictures and icons of past family festooned among the symbols of several major spirits. A quick prayer said, he rose and continued.

“Besides, I’m halfway to jerky already. The Fa Tu Fa will find my flesh quick to convert to qi row.”

“Father, don’t speak like that! If the spirits will it, but don’t tempt them!”

The old man tousled Pema’s hair. “Ah, your mother fears blasphemy. Let us go then.”

An hour later, they stood with the rest of the village, lined up by age. Each line was headed by a priest in a golden robe and white mask. Each masked figure held a small woven bag. Pema waited, nervously, with other youths from her village, many of them attending their first Choosing as a participant, just as she was. Youths walked past her holding black painted sticks. They attempted to stay stoic, but jubilation showed in many faces, strange disappointment in some. Pema reached the bag.

“May the spirits choose well.”

The intonation came from a voice as bright as the mask it wore, not nearly somber enough for the occasion, Pema thought.

“May the spirits choose well.” She repeated his words, reaching in, and pulled out a white painted stick.

He closed his bag, standing.

“THE SPIRITS HAVE CHOSEN!”

Pema stood staring at the white stick, paint still slightly tacky, as people flooded around her. Her family hugging her, crying, her grandfather, holding her close, his eyes full of pain.

“Don’t cry for me grandfather. Share in my spirit, and may it nourish you.”

The ritual words came from her by rote, and she was pulled away. The next day passed in a blur, the unreal haze she lived in aided by the smoke of the incense that burned as her body was washed and cleaned by the Attendants of the Chosen, their golden masks hiding their identity and any emotions they may feel about their job. Later, when she would think about it, one set of jade green eyes would haunt her memories, but as it happened, she cared little for what happened to herself.

As the sun fell, the six Chosen were led to a small room, dark but for a small ritual fire burning.

The golden masked Attendants stood, one leading the chanting.

“The spirits have Chosen these people of the earth.”

“They are Chosen!”

“They shall give of their life to the people of the earth.”

“They are Chosen!”

“Their souls shall join the Heavenly Host!”

“They are Chosen!”

“By their sacrifice they shall make their people strong!”

“THEY ARE CHOSEN! THEY ARE CHOSEN! THEY ARE CHOSEN!”

A wooden box was opened by one of the Attendants, black bags given to each. They walked, slowly, solemnly, to each stand behind one of the six Chosen. In her drug addled state, Pema still knew what was to come, and bowed her heading, waiting for the end. Each bag opened, and from the corners of her eyes she could see the Attendants to each side of her raise a white tube. She felt the hollow tip of the one meant for her press against the back of the neck.

It will be quick. I won’t feel a thing. The thoughts echoed as she saw motion around her of the priests raising a hammer, ready to slam down on the rods at the end of the tubes, pressing a sharpened bronze spike deep into their brains, killing them instantly.

As one, the six called out. She felt her lips form the words, calling to her great great grandmother, a warrior who had died in battle protecting their farm from marauding Turks over three decades ago.

“Spirits of my ancestors, hear me. Spirits of the earth, hold me fast. Spirits of the air, fill my body with life, that I may give life to my people. Lien Bu, I am coming to you!”

“THEY ARE CHOSEN!”

As one six hands flashed down. Pema staggered for a moment, the blow on the back of her head painful, but not sharp, not stabbing. She fell to her knees, and saw that her five fellow chosen fell flat to the ground, lumps of unmoving meat. She reached to her neck, gingerly touching a lump already rising on the back of her skull. She looked up at her Attendant, confused, as he showed her the black tube in his hands, spikeless.

Jade green eyes stared through the holes in the mask, moist with tears.

“You have been Chosen. The spirits wish you to serve your people in life.”

The words echoed through her mind as the six in gold quickly collected the bodies, leaving with them to prepare the Qi Row, the Flesh of Life that had saved her people.

***

Again, the words formed on her lip as she called to her grandfather, now fallen to old age and awaiting her in the heavenly host. The hollow tube rested on her neck. The past several years had been one of service, training to lead her people, wearing the golden mask herself on three occasions, as only those Chosen to live were allowed to be the tool of the Shen in Choosing those who would die. She closed her eyes, reached out and brushed her left shoulder, the tattoo there a reminder. Like many who were chosen to live, she had the symbol of the Choosing, that identified those Chosen, inked into her skin, a permanent reminder of the Spirit’s faith in her.

“THEY ARE CHOSEN!”

She waited for the blow, the spike, the pain. Again, she felt herself driven to her knees, in an instant the girl she once was brought back to the fore, shadowing over the woman she had become.

Pema opened her eyes, expecting to see her grandfather’s shining smile. Five bodies lay on the ground around her, golden masked Attendants over them. She rose to her feet, turning. As if in some bizarre parody of the past, repeating itself, the Attendant held up to her a black pipe.

“You have been”

Pema cut the woman off with a motion of her hand, pulling her jacket open, exposing the tattoo. Eyes behind the mask widened, and the Attendant dropped to her own knees, head bowed, hands clasped together around the black tube.

“Twice Chosen!”

A flutter and stir, as the Attendants all came, some touching her tattoo, all then kneeling in veneration.

“Xuan ze ze” “Twice chosen.”

Pema stood, as much in a daze as the first time she had looked at the white stick in her hands. Her life would change again, she knew. The spirits felt her of more use to her people alive, still. She reached down, taking the black tube from the grip of the Attendant, clutching it in her hands.

Twice Chosen. Tool of the Spirits. She gripped the wooden tube hard, resolve steeling in her heart. She would not let her people, her ancestors, the Spirits of the land, down.

- A copy of a supposed first person account of the Choosing Ceremony of the Temples of Shénjiào. Supposedly the practice of ceremonially turning excess population into food allowed the people of what was once the nation of China to survive. While the economics of food production have radically altered, the tradition continues, slightly modified. This account matches Oculus reports well enough for my purposes.