In a house on Peach Leaf Lane, a kindly-faced old man sat on a rattan chair in the veranda's shade, telling stories to a pert, clever maidservant — goose-yellow patterned trousers under a light gauze dress of soft green — who fanned herself slowly as she listened.
All at once he asked: "Tao Ya, has the wind, then, gone napping again? I am not frightening you — in a great house beyond the town, idling so, you would be bound to receive a scolding."
No answer came. The old man, ever lenient toward his servants, was about to continue his teasing when his countenance changed; he raised his head, his bearing grave. In the courtyard not only did the girl's fan stand still — even the formless breeze had stopped. He hurriedly held his breath, gathered his spirit, recited a secret incantation, and sat down in forgetful meditation, lest in this brief backward current of the great river of time he squander his cultivation for nothing. He sighed. So even Qi Jingchun, the most scrupulous keeper of rules, had broken precedent. The wind had truly risen to herald the storm.
At the Iron Lock Well, a sturdy young outsider crouched nearby, staring at the pulley-cart, while from the corner of his eye he stole glances at a plump woman bending over the well to lift a bucket — the astonishing curve of her haunches, the heavy breasts, her whole figure's exaggerated lines fully revealed, giving off the wild breath of ripe, bursting wheat. When he grew aware of the strange stillness, he did not move, but only plucked up his courage and faced the lovely scene full-on; he swallowed his spit on the sly, then wrenched his body around to change his crouch.
No wonder his master said that women down the mountain were tigers from the grove — their strength much abated; but carried up the mountain, they become tigers of the mountain who reign, and such tigers eat people. His master, when he drank, was forever saying that every hero under heaven had lost to his own home-grown mountain tiger. But the young man thought the grove-tiger dreadful enough — the woman before him, plainly ordinary yet so alluring she set him aquiver; were she to slap him without word or reason, he felt he would still never dare strike back — and who could say but if she laughed, he too would laugh along.
Thinking this, he lost heart. He glanced down at his crotch and cursed himself: "No bone, you! No wonder you've no spine!"
――――
In Mud Vase Lane, Song Jixin was leafing through a thick, timeworn local chronicle. He had puzzled out many of its rules — that a new supplement came every sixty years, so he privately called it the "Sixty-Year Chronicle" — and that the townsfolk, spirited away in youth by far relatives, almost never returned home, as though with little fondness for fallen leaves returning to their roots; many surnames took root far abroad, growing into sky-sealing trees, hence he nicknamed it the "Book Beyond the Wall."
At this moment he was turning a page of biographies, telling the life of a certain Cao Xi with an economy of ink — another peculiarity of the chronicle. He had read it through seven or eight times and had it at his fingertips; at leisure he would pick out only the strangest tales, as a storyteller's marvels. Their truth he could not verify, nor did he care. He remembered only that the man in official robes, before leaving the town to report at the capital, had come alone in the dead of night and, with utter solemnity, bid him remember one thing: to memorize every name and the hundreds upon thousands of figures therein, and the roots each ancestor held in the town — above all their web of ties to the four surnames and ten clans.
At this moment Song Jixin sat utterly still, like the broken clay idols of the town's southeast, tumbled into grass and mud — wind or rain, unmoved. The light sifted through the window held itself in unnatural stillness.
The only moving things in the house were the maidservant Zhigui and that unremarkable four-legged lizard. She had sensed the strangeness early; her first thought was to go next door and tongue-lash that expressionless-faced girl. But when she became aware of that sword's presence, she abandoned the notion. She went first to her master's room, glanced sidelong at the page, grumbled at "Cao Xi," and flicked several pages forward; only at the passages on "Xie Shi" did she smile, then, deflated, turned them back, lest she leak heaven's secrets and give herself away. For years her shrewd, calculating master had suspected her origins only out of curiosity, never catching real proof; she had no wish, on the very eve of success, to fail at the last step. Following him to the schoolhouse as she often did, she found some scholars' sayings hypocritical and foul — like "to cast aside life for righteousness" — while others were well said — like "half of a hundred-li journey is the last ninety."
That dun-yellow lizard sprawled on the threshold, sunning itself. When it fell, silent and motionless, it returned to its true form: under the light it gleamed, translucent and sparkling, its whole body a piece of glazed colored glass.
In the chamber next door, the black-clad Ning Yao had sunk into a mysterious fetal-breathing — breathing not with mouth or nose, as though still in the womb, a trance that stilled all thoughts and returned the spirit to its root.
Within the snow-white sheath, the flying sword, as though pardoned, slid out and flitted lightly about its mistress, gentle as a tame bird, lovely as a girl's skirts whirling. It flew not at random: it traced figures, conjuring for its slowly healing mistress a plot of the finest fengshui. Sure enough, with no breath in the girl, vital energy surged into her in torrents; she drank like a whale swallowing water, crazily devouring the world's primordial vitality. And so the town's deathly stillness and this house's wind-whirling vitality stood in sharp contrast.
On the creek bank south of town stood a stocky fellow, thick brows and big eyes, chest bare and belly exposed, beating iron in his hand — one hammer and sparks flew everywhere, filling the room with light. Countless points of fire darted riotously about the empty room; with every swing, a whole picture burst into being.
Across from him stood a girl in a clean, crisp ponytail, small and dainty, cloaked in yellow cowhide to keep the sparks off — plain cotton would be burnt through, punched full of holes. When one hammering was done, on a sudden all ten thousand sparks halted, stilled.
The ponytailed girl knit her brows: "Father?"
"It is your turn to hammer the sword-blank," the man said. "A fine chance to temper your spirit and intent."
The girl set down the old blade-blank and brushed aside the sparks; a flick of her hand set all things moving, the sparks meant to hang still in the river of time colliding again and again, the room's light grown wild and tangled.
Set against those elders of the town, crouched like sleeping dragons in devotion, the girl's conduct was far too wild and overbearing by half. Especially when she swung the hammer: heavy, forceful, fierce — wilder even than the practiced man's. Every flung spark did not vanish within the Deepest End, so each blow piled layer upon layer, until countless sparks clustered thick in the air like stars. Ten million sparks in the sword-forging chamber.
The man stared at the red-hot blade-blank: "Chant in your heart the Dragon-Taming scroll of the Sword-Casting Canon!"
The girl's bearing fell. Low-voiced: "Father?"
"What now?" he snapped.
She shrank timidly: "I ate too little at noon; my belly is hungry, I cannot swing anymore."
He grew angrier, and had it not been for the forging he might well have cussed her. "Reciting your lessons is like squeezing out your life, and you go making excuses… damn it, girl, with an appetite like yours of course you'd be hungry — hardly an excuse…"
The girl smiled in secret. Her mouth said hunger, but her hands did not slacken. In that instant a flash of wit darted through her; with a great shout she flung all her strength into one blow and, oddly, cried: "Come out!"
The sparks flung off were extraordinarily many, blindingly sharp. The fellow's face betrayed nothing. In his heart: "Done."
――――
In Gu Can's courtyard the woman slowly woke, her head splitting; supported by her child, she sat back on the long bench. True Lord Liu Zhimao Who Severs the River sat with eyes closed in repose, thumb and forefinger working slowly within his sleeve.
Widow Gu pressed her son down beside her and asked softly: "Immortal elder, what has happened?"
The old man did not open his eyes. "I have taken in a fine apprentice, and you have a fine son. Widow Gu, rest easy and wait to rise with your son's rank."
Overjoyed, tears brimming, she hugged her child: "Husband, did you hear? Our Gu Can is sure to amount to something great…"
All at once Liu Zhimao let out a startled "eh," opened his eyes, looked at the lines of his palm, as though a new road had branched there: "Why is this? It should not be. The boy did not die — instead that immortal branch's scion, for no rhyme or reason, has died?"
Forced to rise, he paced slowly, fingers snapping in furious calculation: "Waste! Felled by a common street urchin — the thousand-year fame Cloud Mist Mountain amassed with such toil is destroyed in one stroke."
The woman said, trembling: "Elder immortal, since our Can has taken you as master, why not simply let Chen Ping'an go?"
The old man roared: "A woman's foolish mercy! Had you truly a compassionate heart, you ought never to have conceived of killing at our first meeting. To play the Goddess of Mercy now — have you no shame?"
The woman went white under the tirade, not daring a word.
Not yet eased, he pointed at her: "A country woman, short of sight and knowledge! Once Gu Can returns with me to Letter Scroll Lake, you and your son must not meet over often, lest it obstruct his cultivation. Any objection?"
She waved her hands hastily: "None, I dare not."
His eyes turned sinister. The woman recovered with a woe-begone face: "No objection, absolutely none!"
He flung his sleeve and sneered: "Enough to enrage this old man!" A moment before, seeing she still had some charm, he had been toying with taking her in as his close maidservant — and now she proved so vulgar. Served her right to miss a fortune that might have opened cultivation's threshold.
Suddenly he grew alarmed, as at a grave enemy, and cast his gaze about. And indeed, this stretch of heaven and earth had been stilled into the "Deepest End" — one of the world's many small cavern-heavens, such as a Land Immortal or a Golden-Form Arhat could never hope to open. Such divine power reaches the very summit, and, though owed largely to the great formation, leaves one awed. Think — so long as one stood within, be you immortal, Buddha, god, demon, or goblin, all must kneel and knock your head before me. What a feeling that would be!
Liu Zhimao dreamed of reaching such height. "When the art is high, use it not"? To the devil with that! He would love to drag into such a cavern-heaven the third-generation disciples of the Buddha, the Dao Ancestor, and the Confucian sage alike — not to make them bow, but at least to sit level and address one another as peers.
Without the least warning he spat a mouthful of blood; his palm too was splashed with spurting blood, as though scored by a sharp blade. On his other hand, unbidden, the white bowl appeared, its water's surface in wild chaos, a black line dashing against the walls.
He did not hesitate a whit. Though a Daoist of heterodox paths, he made a Confucian salute, bending all the way to the ground, and said, trembling: "Liu Zhimao, master of Green Gorge Isle on Letter Scroll Lake, begs the master's pity on this junior's zeal for the dao. Should I have given offense, I entreat — the sage will not hold the fault of a small man!"
A long while passed.
"Depart at once!"
The four words burst like a spring thunderclap beside his ear.
Overjoyed: "The master may rest assured — this junior will at once take Widow Gu and her son out of the town."
The old man, who had all along styled himself a junior, asked carefully: "May I ask — these two sacks of gold-essence copper coins on my person, how ought they be disposed of?"
The majestic voice sounded once more: "One person and one thing — just that makes two shares of fate's grant. Leave them in the courtyard. Within thirty years, you may not leave Letter Scroll Lake by a single step."
Liu Zhimao, a great weight lifted, made no fawning show, only a solemn Daoist obeisance: "What an elder bestows, a junior dare not refuse. For your great kindness, Master Qi, this junior is grateful to the very marrow, and shall never forget it so long as a tooth remains in his mouth!"
After this Qi Jingchun's voice did not come again, and the Deepest End soon faded. Liu Zhimao wasted no words and had Widow Gu take Gu Can by the hand and leave the town. She was about to speak when he fixed her with a look of utmost ferocity. He drew out the two sacks and, though loath to part with them, laid them without wavering upon the long bench. But no sooner had he reached the courtyard than he asked: "Has your household kept any old heirloom of worth?"
Widow Gu looked blank. Quick, sly Gu Can reminded her: "Father left that multi-treasure cabinet, didn't he — the one hid under the bed gathering dust?"
Liu Zhimao's eyes lit up; he had her lead the way to see for himself. Since the sage acknowledged Gu Can himself as a share of fate's grant, the child might carry off his own share. And where such grants would finally rest — in the town, even the King of Heaven must take his cue from Qi Jingchun; but once upon Letter Scroll Lake, that was another matter.
Gu Can, at last unwatched, waited until the two went in, then seized a sack in each hand, drew back the bolt, and raced toward the other end of Mud Vase Lane.
Inside, Widow Gu knelt and hauled the chest from beneath the bed — not large but very heavy; she dragged it out, puffing and panting. Her well-upholstered rear took a sharp kick from the True Lord, and he teased: "Widow Gu, you lose out on day-to-day upkeep. On that score alone, second-class maidservant on Green Gorge Isle would be a stretch — but third-class, more than enough. This old man cannot quite fancy you, but there are guest-retainers and wanderers on the isle who, who can say, might have a taste for you. When the time comes, battle hard, and be not shy, lest you let a piece of fortune slip idly away."
The woman's body stiffened slightly. She was still splayed beneath the bed, his face unseen.
――――
Reaching the mouth of a lane, Qi Jingchun said to Chen Ping'an: "I will take care of Cai Jinjian and Fu Nanhua myself. And now that you hold this ancestral locust leaf, all the more must you not look lightly upon life and death. To live on well — that is the greatest repayment you can make to your father and mother. As for the three forces beyond — Cloud Mist Mountain, Old Dragon City, and the True Lord Who Severs the River — I dare not swear they will never come seeking trouble; but within ten years, certainly not. If luck favors you, live out your days as a common man of the streets, and you may pass thirty years in safety."
He laughed. "Nor is there need to hold suspicion against the town itself. Before long, there should be no more of those schemings. If you want twenty or thirty years of tranquil days, why not find a girl here to marry, set up a home, build your fortune? And if you wish to go beyond the town and see for yourself the true look of heaven and earth, that too is a good thing. To read ten thousand volumes and walk ten thousand li — that is what we scholars must necessarily do. In time you will find that in this town the reading is hard and the walking easy; beyond the town, many scholars buy, read, and hoard books with ease — but they have no fondness for walking far, and shrink from hardship. Their journeys of study, bag on back, are nothing more than a pleasure-ride in a carriage through the countryside."
The youth said in surprise: "Master Qi, is walking also counted as hardship?"
Qi Jingchun laughed heartily. "Not to speak of beyond the town — let us keep to what is before us. How many folk of your own age in Fortune & Rank Street and Peach Leaf Lane have you seen ranging wild over field and mountain as you do?"
The youth nodded. "That is true."
Qi thought a moment, then reached up, drew the jade-green hairpin from his topknot, bent down, and handed it to the poor youth: "Count this as a parting gift. It is no precious object, far from any immortal implement — accept it with ease of heart. In truth, I was once a youth of a mean lane, exactly as you are; I studied with furious diligence, passing through every kind of trial and fortune alike, and it was thus I entered Cliff Academy. That stretch of years when I sought my master and studied under him was the happiest of my life. And when my master at last came forth from the mountains, he gave me this hairpin — a hope and a charge he laid upon me. It is only a pity that, looking back now, through all these years I have done nothing well; I am sure that, were my master still in the world, he would be disappointed."
How could the youth dare accept such a gift? This jade-green hairpin seemed yet to hold the master-disciple bond between Master Qi and his own master. Whatever the weight of feeling, the gift was not light. However little the youth knew of fine things, he was after all one raised to fire imperial porcelain; as to an object's worth, he had a measure of discernment.
Qi Jingchun said warmly: "If it stays with me, this keepsake of my late master would be buried with me, lost in obscurity — better it be passed to you. And anyway, you have not received favor without deserving it. I have lingered in this town for close to sixty years, and a little knot in my heart has gone untied all that while. My master has long since passed; I had thought to die without ever finding the answer — but you solved my riddle, unwittingly. So this hairpin I give to you, and for feeling and reason and courtesy alike, it is altogether fitting. Chen Ping'an, I could only beg a single locust leaf for you; I cannot grant you any further share of fortune."
The youth received the hairpin with both hands — of ordinary material, indeed — and raised his head in earnest: "Master, you have already done a great deal."
Qi Jingchun smiled and let it be. Seeing the youth won over, he felt a load lifted from his mind. The hairpin was plain and ordinary, but it was his late master's keepsake, and to give it to a youth who would not disgrace the inscription carved upon it was a very good thing.
And so, at the last, he charged him: "Chen Ping'an, remember this — whatever you meet with henceforth, never lose hope in this world."