Had he never passed through Fortune Deer Street or Peach Leaf Lane, Chen Ping'an might have gone his entire life without realizing how dark and narrow Clay Bottle Alley truly was. Yet the boy in straw sandals felt no discontent at all — on the contrary, at last he felt at peace. Smiling, he stretched out both hands, his palms just brushing the yellow mud walls on either side. He recalled that three or four years ago, only his fingertips could reach them.
Arriving at his own house, he found the courtyard gate standing wide open. Thinking a thief had broken in, the boy rushed inside, only to see a tall, strapping youth sitting on his doorstep, leaning back against the locked door and yawning with utter boredom. The moment he spotted Chen Ping'an, the young man sprang up as if his backside were on fire, rushed over, seized Chen Ping'an by the arm, and hauled him toward the house. Lowering his voice, he hissed, "Open the door, quick! I've got urgent business with you!"
Chen Ping'an could not break free of his grip and was dragged over to unlock the door. This youth, two years his senior and powerfully built, immediately cast Chen Ping'an aside and stole on tiptoe to the plank bed, pressing his ear hard against the wall to eavesdrop on the neighbors.
"What are you doing, Liu Xianyang?" Chen Ping'an asked, bewildered.
The tall youth ignored the question entirely. After about the time it takes to burn half a stick of incense, Liu Xianyang returned to normal, sitting at the edge of the plank bed. His expression was complicated — there was relief in it, but also something like regret.
Only then did Liu Xianyang notice Chen Ping'an engaged in a strange ritual: crouched just inside the doorway, body leaning outward, using a scrap of candle barely the size of a thumb to burn a sheet of yellow paper, the ashes falling just outside the threshold. Chen Ping'an was muttering something under his breath, but Liu Xianyang was too far away to make it out clearly.
Liu Xianyang was the last personal disciple of Old Yao, master of one of the oldest dragon kilns. As for the slow-witted Chen Ping'an, the old man had never truly accepted him as a disciple at all. In these parts, if an apprentice had never served his master the formal tea of discipleship, or if the master had never drunk that cup, then there was no master-disciple bond between them. Chen Ping'an and Liu Xianyang were not neighbors; their family homes were quite far apart. The reason Liu Xianyang had first introduced Chen Ping'an to Old Yao traced back to a bitter incident between them years before.
Liu Xianyang had once been the most notorious troublemaker in town. While his grandfather was still alive, there had at least been an elder in the house to keep him in line. After the old man died of illness, the boy — twelve or thirteen, already as tall and strong as a grown man — became the terror of every street and lane. Then, for reasons unknown, Liu Xianyang somehow provoked a gang of youths from the Lu family. They cornered him in Clay Bottle Alley and gave him a thorough beating. Those boys were all at an age when hot blood ran high, and they never measured the force of their blows. Before long Liu Xianyang was coughing up blood without end. The dozen or so families living in Clay Bottle Alley were mostly low-ranking kiln workers barely scraping by — who would dare wade into such muddy waters?
Song Jixin had not been afraid in the slightest. He squatted cheerfully on top of his courtyard wall and watched the show with delight, as if the world could not descend into chaos fast enough.
In the end, only one scrawny child had slipped out of his courtyard and run to the mouth of the alley, where he screamed at the top of his lungs toward the main street, "Someone's dead! Someone's dead!"
The word "dead" jolted the Lu youths back to their senses. Seeing Liu Xianyang sprawled on the ground covered in blood, the tall boy barely clinging to life, those pampered young masters finally felt a surge of belated fear. After exchanging startled glances, they fled from the other end of Clay Bottle Alley.
But after that, instead of being grateful to the child who had saved his life, Liu Xianyang came around every few days to tease and torment him. And the orphan was stubborn — no matter how Liu Xianyang bullied him, he refused to cry, which only made the older boy more resentful. Then came a certain winter. Watching the little orphan named Chen, it seemed he truly might not survive the cold. At last Liu Xianyang's conscience stirred. This youth, already apprenticed at the dragon kiln, took the orphan to that very kiln beside Precious Creek. West of town it lay; in heavy snow, dozens of li along mountain paths. To this day, Liu Xianyang could not figure out how that little runt, dark as charcoal with legs like bamboo poles, had managed to walk all the way.
Old Yao, it was true, kept Chen Ping'an on in the end. But the difference in how he treated the two was like the gulf between heaven and earth. To his last disciple Liu Xianyang, he meted out both scoldings and beatings, but even a blind man could feel the painstaking care beneath them. Once, his hand was too heavy, and Liu Xianyang's forehead bled. The thick-skinned boy thought nothing of it, but Old Yao — his master — deeply regretted it. That old man, who had always been a silent gourd in front of his disciples, too proud to speak soft words, paced circles in his room for half the night, still unable to set his heart at ease. He could only call Chen Ping'an over and send him to deliver a jar of medicinal salve to Liu Xianyang.
All these years, Chen Ping'an had always envied Liu Xianyang.
Not his talent, not his strength, not his easy way with people. He envied only this: that Liu Xianyang was fearless before heaven and earth, that wherever he went he was careless and light-hearted, and that he never once felt that living alone was a wretched thing. No matter where Liu Xianyang went or who he met, before long he would have his arm slung over their shoulder, calling them brother, drinking and playing finger-guessing games. Liu Xianyang's grandfather had been in poor health, so the boy learned to fend for himself from an early age. He became a king among children — catching snakes, netting fish, raiding birds' nests, proficient in all of it. Wooden bows, fishing poles, slingshots, bird traps — Liu Xianyang seemed able to make anything. In two matters especially — catching loaches in the paddy ridges and hooking eels — there was no better hand in the whole town.
In truth, when Liu Xianyang had withdrawn from the village school back then, that Teacher Qi had personally gone to visit his ailing grandfather, saying Liu Xianyang could continue his studies without paying a single copper. But Liu Xianyang refused point-blank. He wanted only to earn money, not to read books. Teacher Qi had then said he could hire Liu Xianyang as his own study attendant. Still the boy refused. And he had done well enough for himself: even after Old Yao died and the dragon kiln was sealed by the authorities, it took barely a few days before Liu Xianyang was taken on by the blacksmith on Dragon-Riding Lane. He had already begun building a thatched hut and furnace south of town, busier than ever.
Liu Xianyang watched Chen Ping'an blow out the candle stub and set it on the table, then asked in a low voice, "In the mornings... have you ever heard strange sounds? Like..."
Chen Ping'an sat on the bench, waiting.
Liu Xianyang hesitated. For the first time in his life, his face actually reddened. "Like the yowling of cats in springtime."
"Is it Song Jixin meowing, or is it Zhigui?" Chen Ping'an asked.
Liu Xianyang rolled his eyes, giving up on playing the lute before a cow. He braced his palms on the edge of the bed, slowly bent his elbows, then straightened his arms — lifting his rear from the bed, feet off the ground. Suspended in the air, he curled his lip in contempt. "Zhigui? Her name is Wang Zhu. That Song fellow has loved to put on airs since he was small. He must have stumbled across the characters 'Zhigui' somewhere and just slapped them on her, without the faintest idea what they mean. A girl landing with a young master like that — she must have committed some sin in her past life, to deserve suffering at Song Jixin's hands."
Chen Ping'an did not agree with the tall youth's words.
Liu Xianyang, still holding that awkward pose, let out a cold snort. "You honestly don't get it? Why did that girl Wang Zhu stop talking to you altogether after you helped her carry a bucket of water once? I guarantee it's that petty, narrow-hearted Song Jixin. The vinegar jar tipped right over. He must have threatened Wang Zhu — forbade her from even glancing in your direction. Otherwise he'd deal out the family punishment. Break her legs. Throw her out into Clay Bottle Alley..."
Chen Ping'an could bear it no longer and cut him off. "Song Jixin is not bad to her."
"What do you know about good and bad?" Liu Xianyang snapped in anger.
Chen Ping'an's eyes were clear. Softly he said, "Sometimes when she is working in the courtyard, Song Jixin will be sitting on his stool, reading that local gazetteer of whatever place it is. And when she looks at Song Jixin... she often smiles."
Liu Xianyang's gaze went blank.
In a sudden crack, the flimsy plank bed could no longer bear his weight. It snapped clean in two, and the tall youth crashed down on his backside.
Chen Ping'an crouched on the floor, both hands clutching his head. He sighed — this was trouble.
Liu Xianyang scratched his head and stood up. He offered no apology. He merely kicked Chen Ping'an lightly, bared his teeth in a grin, and said, "All right, all right. It's just one rickety little bed. The reason I came today is to bring you a piece of news so good it makes your bed worth a hundred times over!"
Chen Ping'an lifted his head.
With a face full of smug satisfaction, Liu Xianyang declared, "Master Ruan took me south of town. Beside that creek he suddenly said he wanted to dig a few wells. Short on hands, he needed to call for more men. I casually dropped your name — said there's this little shorty whose strength is passable. Master Ruan agreed. He said you should come over yourself within the next two days."
Chen Ping'an shot to his feet, about to voice his thanks.
Liu Xianyang raised one palm. "Stop, stop! Great kindness needs no showy words! Just keep it in your heart!"
Chen Ping'an grinned from ear to ear.
Liu Xianyang swept his gaze around the room — a fishing pole leaning in the corner, a slingshot lying beneath the window, a wooden bow hanging on the wall. The tall youth opened his mouth as if to speak, then held back.
He strode across the threshold, his boots carefully skirting the ashes of the talisman paper.
Chen Ping'an watched that tall silhouette.
Liu Xianyang suddenly turned around. Facing Chen Ping'an still within the doorframe, the tall youth dropped into a rooted stance, feet never leaving the ground. He surged forward several steps and threw out a heavy punch, then pulled back his fist and straightened his waist. Laughing loudly, he proclaimed, "Master Ruan told me in private — I only need to practice this fist art for one year, and it will kill a man!"
As if not yet satisfied, he executed a peculiar kick. "This one's called 'A Good Leg Always Finds the Groin — Kicks Down the Dumbfounded Donkey!'"
Finally Liu Xianyang stuck out his thumb and pointed it at his own chest, chin held high. "When Master Ruan was teaching me fist techniques, I offered some ideas and insights of my own. I spoke to him about my understanding of Old Yao's 'Leaping Blade' secret technique for porcelain-making. Master Ruan praised me — called me a once-in-a-century prodigy of the martial path! From now on, just follow me and I'll see you eat the finest meat and drink the finest wine!"
Out of the corner of his eye, Liu Xianyang noticed that the maidservant next door had already returned to her room. Instantly his enthusiasm for playing the hero evaporated.
Nonchalantly, he added, "Oh, right. When I passed the old locust tree earlier, there was this new old man there, calling himself a 'storyteller.' Setting up a stall. Said he'd stuffed his belly full of strange tales and curious people, and he was itching to share them with us. Might be worth a look if you have time."
Chen Ping'an nodded.
Liu Xianyang strode off, leaving Clay Bottle Alley behind him.
The town was full of stories about this solitary, unruly youth. But the boy himself liked to claim his ancestors were generals who had led armies into battle — which was why his family had passed down a treasure armor from generation to generation.
"Treasure armor" — Chen Ping'an had seen it once with his own eyes. Truth be told, it was ugly as could be, like warts on a man's skin or gnarled knots on an old tree.
But Liu Xianyang's peers told a different story. They said his ancestor had been a deserter. He had fled to this town, married into a family as a live-in son-in-law, and through sheer luck had evaded the authorities. They spoke of it as if they had witnessed with their own eyes Liu Xianyang's ancestor fleeing the battlefield, stumbling through countless hardships until he reached this small town.
Chen Ping'an thought for a moment, then crouched beside the threshold and bent low to blow away the ashes.
Song Jixin was standing on the other side of the courtyard wall, his maidservant Zhigui at his side. He called out, "Want to come with us to the locust tree and have a look?"
Chen Ping'an raised his head. "Not going."
Song Jixin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Boring."
He turned to his servant girl and grinned. "Zhigui, let's go! I'll buy you an entire jar of peach blossom powder — the kind they store in a general's belly jar!"
Blushing, she murmured, "A little cricket jar would be enough."
Song Jixin clasped both hands behind his back, lifted his chin and puffed out his chest, and strode grandly forward. "We of the Song family — our bells ring at banquets of jade, our household is fragrant with successive generations of officials! How can we be so miserly and small-bellied? Would that not disgrace the name of our ancestors?!"
Chen Ping'an sat on the threshold and rubbed his forehead. This Song Jixin — when he wasn't spouting strange, affected nonsense, he didn't give a bad impression at all. But in moments like this, if Liu Xianyang had been here, he would certainly have said he wanted to bring a brick down on the back of Song Jixin's skull.
Leaning against the doorframe, Chen Ping'an thought of the days ahead. Tomorrow would probably be much like today. The day after, like tomorrow. On and on it would repeat, until the end — until he reached the state of Old Yao.
Men eat the earth for a lifetime; one day the earth eats them back.
Then eyes close. When they open again, it might already be the next life.
The boy lowered his head and looked at the straw sandals on his feet. Suddenly he smiled.
Stepping on blue flagstones... felt different from stepping in the mud.