WSMTATMC C81

Chapter 81

“When did you arrive in Jizhou?”

“Yesterday afternoon. After we got in, we first looked for lodging and nearly got swindled.”

Wang Ying frowned with concern. “How did you almost get swindled?”

“As soon as we entered the city, touts swarmed us, and I had Ershun sound out a place with a supposedly ‘reasonable’ rate. We followed them there. On the road, they promised an ‘upper room’ at one hundred cash per day. When we arrived, it turned out to be a filthy, ramshackle common dormitory—still one hundred cash.”

“And you didn’t stay, right?”

“Of course not. We’re not fools. How could that place be worth a hundred cash, and with all sorts of people milling about? With so much luggage and so many books, we couldn’t possibly stay there.” Chen Qingyan paused. “When we tried to leave, they blocked us—hammers and cudgels in hand—threatening to keep our belongings unless we paid.”

“That’s straight-up robbery!”

“Luckily, Chen Guang knows unarmed combat. He grabbed one of them and dislocated his arm on the spot. They were so frightened, they let us go immediately.”

“He knows martial arts?”

Chen Guang was the retainer sent by Fourth Uncle; Wang Ying had assumed he was like Chen Bo and Ershun—someone to tend to Master Liang and Qinghuai’s daily needs—not expecting martial skill.

“Chen Guang is quite capable. No idea where Fourth Uncle recruited him, but he’s fiercely loyal to Qinghuai.”

Wang Ying thought wryly that Fourth Uncle Chen Jing was living the protagonist’s script: passing the juren in a small town and rising swiftly to a fifth-rank prefect—roughly the equivalent of a provincial governor in later times—was the kind of fortune that came when ancestors smiled down. He’d even befriended the foremost talent of Jiangnan and had a bodyguard skilled in martial arts.

Tsk, tsk—almost too dramatic to believe.

Still, having a competent fighter along eased Wang Ying’s mind; at least there’d be fewer worries about being bullied on the road.

“After we left that wretched inn, Master Liang went to find an old friend—one Lord Wang, a tongzhi in Jizhou. When he learned we’d be here for over ten days, he set us up in a residence that used to be the old relay station for important officials and foreign guests. Since the new station was built, the old one is idle—but kept clean—very neat inside.”

“That’s much better than lodging outside.”

“It is. Today we treated him to a meal to show thanks. I had two cups of wine and am a little lightheaded.”

Wang Ying stroked his flushed cheek, red as a monkey’s. “You’ve rushed about for days—rest early. We’ll talk more next time.”

Reluctantly, Qingyan hugged Wang Ying, then bent to kiss the sleeping Yuanbao. “I’ll go then.”

—

The next morning, Yuanbao woke and immediately demanded Daddy.

Wang Ying hurried to soothe him. “Daddy is busy and can’t see us every day. Ah Fu will take you to see him again next time.”

“No—want Daddy…” The little rascal was stubborn and insisted on entering the field.

Wang Ying feared he would suddenly go in and cause a panic if the servants couldn’t find him, so he had no choice but to take him in for a short while. When Madam Li knocked on the door, he rushed the boy back out and warned him not to tell anyone.

But children don’t keep such things. He immediately told Grandma he’d seen Daddy—and had gotten a hug.

Madam Li didn’t think much of it, assuming he’d dreamed it. She pressed her cheek to the child’s chubby face. “Our Yuanbao misses Daddy, hm? Don’t worry—once he’s done with work, he’ll come back to see you.”

Day by day the weather warmed. By the second month, it was nearly Chen Qingyan’s birthday.

He was born on the sixth of the second month. In past years, he celebrated at home; this year’s travels meant a simple observance on the road.

In Jizhou, at dawn, Qingsong came knocking.

“Up so early?”

“Happy birthday, Big Brother!”

Qingyan blinked, then smiled. “I’d forgotten myself. Good thing you remembered.”

“Heh, it was Sister-in-law who remembered. Before we left, he gave me this and told me to hand it to you on your birthday.”

Qingyan accepted a wooden box, heavy in his hands. “What’s inside?”

“I don’t know—haven’t opened it.”

He carried the box inside and opened it: a book and three little clay figurines.

They were easy to recognize: the tallest was Chen Qingyan, the shorter one beside him was Wang Ying, and half their size stood their son, Yuanbao.

The figurines were vivid and painted: Qingyan in his usual stone-blue, Wang Ying in sky-blue, and little Yuanbao in a bright vermilion jacket—altogether charming.

Qingyan loved them at first sight, turning them over carefully before setting them by the bed.

He didn’t have time to open the book; his teacher called him out—they were to visit the prefectural academy and meet a certain Master Lu Zhongqi.

“You may not know Master Lu’s name, but you’ve surely read his poem: ‘Floating fragrance coils along the winding bank, round shadows cover the flowered pool. I always fear the autumn wind comes early, that your falling will pass unknown.’” Note 1

Qingyan exclaimed, “Master Lu?!”

“Yes, him.”

Qinghuai and Qingsong lit up; it was one of the first poems they’d learned for prosody—who would have thought they’d meet the author himself!

Master Liang stroked his beard with complacent pride. “I’ve known him for years. Back then I was adrift and traveling among mountains and waters, and stumbled into a poetry gathering uninvited.”

With the quatrain “Knowing Spring,” Liang Boqing dazzled the room; literati flocked to befriend him, and he and Lu became friends there.

Letters had passed between them; when Liang wrote, Lu wrote back.

Master Lu was now in his sixties, senior to Liang by more than ten years. He was still in decent health and served at the academy.

At the academy, Master Liang had Qingyan present a calling card at the gate. Soon the porter opened the side door and admitted them.

The Jizhou Prefectural Academy was even larger than imagined—over ten mu, roughly more than 20,000 square meters.

From the main gate one saw a huge artificial hill with a pond; it was spring, and the trees on the rockery were budding lush and green. In the pool below, red carp drifted lazily.

Past the rockery lay a courtyard paved with fine pebbles, and beyond it a neat row of halls.

This was where students read daily; at that hour, morning recitation echoed from within.

Qinghuai and Qingsong craned their necks curiously; Qingyan gave a soft cough—mind your manners.

After a while, they met a young scholar in cyan robes. Qingyan stepped forward. “Pardon me, could you tell us where to find Master Lu? We’re here to pay a visit.”

The young man glanced over the group, then said kindly, “As it happens, I’m on my way to see Master Lu. Come with me.”

They followed him into the rear compounds. Beyond the front classroom row, pavilions and galleries spread in orderly clusters.

Master Lu now kept the library. Since last year, he’d lacked the strength to teach classes, so he tended the collection. Students sought him there with questions—the young man was one of them.

At the library, they found the old man dozing in the sun at the door.

Their guide stopped. “Master Lu is resting. Perhaps wait to the side, if you please.”

Master Liang ignored this and called out, “Zhongqi!”

“Eh—who calls?” The old master jerked awake and, seeing the figure not far away, widened his eyes in delight. “Liufang? What are you doing here!”

Lu Zhongqi rose and hurried forward; the two embraced warmly, slapping each other’s backs.

“It’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it? I never thought we’d meet again!”

“So it is,” Liang sighed. Lu was old—average lifespans were low, and even among the well-off, those who reached sixty were few. Liang had worried he might not find his friend alive.

They finally parted and looked each other over.

“You’re old now—your hair’s gone white.”

Lu laughed heartily. “I’m practically in my grave—why wouldn’t it be white? Yours is gray, too. I remember the first time I saw you—so spirited and dazzling—made me envious.”

Liang waved it off. Back then, it had been all shine, little substance. Inwardly, he was conflicted—watching classmates win rank and honor while he bore, uselessly, the title “First Talent of Jiangnan.”

After some reminiscing, they remembered the others. Lu eyed the young men behind. “And these are your juniors?”

“More or less—my disciples. The county exam is next year, so I’m taking them on a study tour while there’s time.”

Lu’s eyes brightened. “You’ve taken students?”

“Mm. One is a friend’s son, and the other two are his nephews. When you drive one sheep, you might as well herd two; I took them all.”

The “sheep” stepped forward and bowed solemnly.

“Junior Chen Qingyan, Chen Qinghuai, and Chen Qingsong pay respects to Master Lu.”

“No need for formality. Come sit—Changyi is here as well; he’ll join us.”

Liu Changyi was Lu’s last disciple, about Qingyan’s age, and full of curiosity as he followed them in.

The library exuded the fragrance of ink. Centuries of learning were preserved here—over a thousand hundred and eighty volumes in all.

Besides paper books, there were bamboo slips, which had to be maintained regularly to prevent mold and splitting—no small chore.

Lu didn’t mind trouble. At his age, books were his sole joy, beloved as family—each volume dearly cherished.

They knelt on cushions. Lu handed a book to Qingyan. “Look—your teacher’s collected writings.”

Liu Changyi, glancing sideways, froze—mouth agape. “Collected Writings of Liufang.” Just now the teacher had called the old man Liufang—could this elder really be the famed Liang Liufang?!

—

Footnotes:

1. “Floating fragrance coils along the winding bank, round shadows cover the flowered pool. I always fear the autumn wind comes early, that your falling will pass unknown.” A well-known quatrain (often anthologized) used in prosody instruction, here attributed in-story to Master Lu.