Song Jixin brought his maidservant Zhigui to the old locust tree and found the shade already packed with people — nearly half a hundred, seated on stools and chairs they had carried from their own homes. More children kept arriving, tugging their elders along to join the excitement.
Song Jixin and Zhigui stood shoulder to shoulder at the edge of the crowd's shadow. They saw an old man beneath the tree, one hand holding up a large white bowl, the other clasped behind his back, his expression charged with fervor as he loudly proclaimed, "Having just spoken of the great dragon veins' flow, let me now speak of the true dragon itself. Ah — this is truly a matter of the utmost wonder! Some three thousand years past, there appeared beneath heaven a transcendent immortal figure. First he secluded himself in a certain grotto-heaven and blessed land, cultivating the Great Dao. After attaining it, he traveled the world alone, sword in hand. Three spans of spirit held within three feet of steel — such was the keenness of his blade. For reasons unknown, this man bore a peculiar grudge against dragonkind. For three full centuries, wherever there were flood dragons, he cut them down, until there was no longer a single true dragon left in the world. Only then did he cease. In the end, none knew where he went. Some say he journeyed to the utmost place where the Dao and its truths dwell, there to sit in discourse with the Dao Ancestor. Others say he traveled to the distant Pure Land of the West, to debate scripture with the Buddha. Yet others claim he personally guards the gates of Fengdu in the underworld, preventing monstrous spirits and baleful wraiths from wreaking havoc upon the mortal realm..."
The old man spoke until spittle flew, but every commoner beneath the tree remained utterly unmoved, faces painted with pure bewilderment.
Zhigui quietly asked, "What does 'three spans of spirit' mean?"
Song Jixin smiled. "It means a sword."
The maidservant grumbled, "Young Master, this old gentleman is far too fond of showing off his learning. He cannot even speak plain words properly."
Song Jixin cast a glance at the old man, taking a certain petty satisfaction in the scene. "In our town, those who can read are few. This storyteller is casting flirtatious glances before the blind."
Zhigui asked further, "What is a grotto-heaven and blessed land? Can a person truly live three hundred years? And that Fengdu underworld — is that not a place only the dead may go?"
Song Jixin was stumped, but unwilling to show it. He answered offhandedly, "All nonsense. He probably read a few second-rate chapbooks of unofficial histories and came here to fool country bumpkins."
At that moment Song Jixin keenly sensed the old man glancing his way, with deliberation and intent. Though it was only the briefest brush of the eyes, gone in an instant, Song Jixin caught it with care. Still, the boy did not dwell on it; he assumed mere coincidence.
Zhigui lifted her gaze to the old locust tree. Sunlight, broken into fine slivers, fell through the gaps between leaves. She narrowed her eyes without thinking.
Song Jixin turned to look at her — and suddenly froze.
His maidservant's face had begun to shed its childish plumpness at the very edges. She looked different from the thin, scrawny, dried-up little servant girl he remembered.
In the customs of this town, when a woman married, they would hire a person of complete fortune — one whose parents and children were all alive and well — to snip away the fine down on the bride's face and trim her hairline and temples. This was called "opening the face," or "raising the brows."
Song Jixin had also read of a custom the town did not practice. So, when Zhigui was twelve, he had bought the finest new wine in town, brought out that secretly hidden porcelain vessel glazed in a color like green plums, poured the wine inside, carefully sealed it with clay, and buried it deep underground.
Song Jixin suddenly spoke. "Zhigui, although that fellow surnamed Chen — in the words of we scholars' ancient forefather — is 'rotted wood that cannot be carved, a wall of dung and earth that cannot be plastered'... no matter what, in this life of his, he has at least done one meaningful thing."
The maidservant did not answer. Her eyes were lowered, and one could just make out the faint trembling of her lashes.
Song Jixin went on as if to himself. "Chen Ping'an — the man himself is not bad. It is only that his nature is too rigid. Whatever he does, he recognizes nothing but hard principles. That is why, having become a kiln worker, no matter how diligently he labors, he is destined never to produce a single piece of inspired craftsmanship. This is why Liu Xianyang's master, that Old Yao, could never bring himself to think well of Chen Ping'an — the old man had a uniquely discerning eye. This is what is meant by 'rotted wood cannot be carved.' As for 'a wall of dung and earth cannot be plastered' — roughly it means that a poverty-stricken wretch like Chen Ping'an, even if you dressed him in a dragon robe, would still be nothing but a mud-footed farm boy..."
At this, Song Jixin turned the blade on himself. "Truth be told, I am even worse off than Chen Ping'an."
She did not know how to comfort her young master.
Song Jixin and his maidservant had always been a prime topic of idle chatter among the wealthy households of Fortune Deer Street and Peach Leaf Lane. This was thanks entirely to Song Jixin's so-called "cheap father" — Magistrate Song.
This small town had no true figures of greatness and no great storms of change. Thus the kiln superintendents dispatched by the imperial court were precisely the "blue-sky grand magistrates" of storybooks. Among the dozens of superintendents in the town's history, it was the previous one, Magistrate Song, who had won the deepest favor of the people. Unlike those lofty officials before him, Magistrate Song did not seclude himself in the official residence cultivating his spirit, nor did he shut his doors to devote himself wholly to his study. He attended personally to every detail of the official kilns' porcelain production, more like a country peasant than any kiln worker. In the span of over ten years, this once book-scented scholar's skin was tanned a glossy dark, his everyday dress no different from a farmer's. In dealing with others, he never put on the slightest airs. It was only a pity that the tribute porcelain fired in the town's dragon kilns, whether in glaze color and quality or in the form of great vessels and small wares, never quite met expectations. To be frank, it was even somewhat inferior to the standards of past generations. The old kiln masters could not fathom why.
In the end, the court must have felt that Magistrate Song, however lacking in merit, had at least put in his share of bitter toil. The written decree from the Ministry of Personnel recalling him to the capital at least evaluated his performance as "adequate." Before departing for the capital, Magistrate Song distributed a fortune in silver and funded the construction of a covered bridge from his own purse. It was only later, when people noticed a certain child had not been bundled into Magistrate Song's departing retinue, that the great clan elders of the town understood.
One could fairly say that Magistrate Song had earned no small share of good karma in this town. And with the added, deliberate care of the current kiln superintendent, the boy Song Jixin had passed these years living without worry of food or clothing, free and at ease. As for the maidservant now called Zhigui — tales about her origins were legion. The local residents of Clay Bottle Alley said that in the goose-feather snow of a harsh winter, a girl from the outside had begged her way here and collapsed at the gate of Song Jixin's courtyard. Had she not been found in time, she would have already gone before King Yama for reincarnation.
The old hands who did odd jobs at the official residence had another version. They swore with absolute certainty that Magistrate Song had long ago sent someone to buy an orphan from another region — all for the purpose of finding his illegitimate son Song Jixin a warm, attentive companion, to make up somewhat for the debt of a father and son unable to acknowledge one another.
Whatever the truth, once the boy named her Zhigui, it settled the matter of their father-son bond once and for all. For the great clans and wealthy houses of the town all knew that Magistrate Song's most cherished possession was an inkstone, carved with exactly those two characters: zhí and guī.
Song Jixin came back to himself, his face breaking into a brilliant smile. "I do not know why, but I was just thinking of that shameless little four-legged snake. Think about it, Zhigui — I threw it all the way into Chen Ping'an's courtyard, and it still insisted on crawling back into ours. That just shows — how utterly repulsive must Chen Ping'an's dog kennel be, that even a tiny snake cannot bear to stay in it?"
The maidservant considered it seriously, then answered, "In some matters... could it not also be a matter of fate and affinity?"
Song Jixin gave a thumbs-up, utterly delighted. "Exactly the truth of it! That Chen Ping'an — a man of shallow fate and thin fortune. He should count himself lucky just to be alive."
She said nothing.
Song Jixin murmured to himself, "Once we leave this town, I shall entrust the things in the house to Chen Ping'an's care. Do you suppose he might steal from the very one who trusted him?"
Quietly, the maidservant said, "Young Master — surely not?"
Song Jixin laughed. "Oh? Zhigui — you understand the meaning of 'stealing from the one who trusted you'?"
The maidservant blinked her long autumn-water eyes. "Is it not the literal meaning?"
Song Jixin laughed again and turned his gaze southward. An expression of distant longing came over his face. "I hear that in the capital, the books are more numerous than the grasses and trees of our town put together."
Just then, the storyteller was proclaiming, "Though true dragons no longer walk this world, their lesser kin — the dragon, the wyrm, the hornless dragon, and the rest — still dwell truly and palpably in the world of men. It may well be that..."
The old man deliberately paused for effect, but seeing his audience utterly unresponsive and incapable of giving him a proper cue, he had no choice but to continue on his own. "...It may well be that they are hiding right among us! The immortals of the Daoist canon call this 'the hidden dragon in the abyss'!"
Song Jixin yawned.
Just then, a single locust leaf drifted down and landed squarely on his forehead — green as if ready to drip.
Song Jixin reached up and caught it, absently twirling the stem between two fingers.
---
Having decided to go to the eastern gate and dun that debtor once more, Chen Ping'an was nearing the old locust tree when he too saw a locust leaf drifting down before him. He quickened his pace, reaching out to catch it.
But a faint breeze brushed past, and the leaf slipped past his hand.
The boy in straw sandals moved with supple agility, sidestepping swiftly to intercept the leaf.
Yet the leaf gave another spin in midair.
The boy refused to accept defeat. He darted and twisted several more times, but in the end he still could not catch that single leaf.
There was nothing the boy Chen Ping'an could do.
A blue-robed youth, playing truant from the village school, brushed past Chen Ping'an without a word.
The youth had no idea that, unbeknownst to him, a single locust leaf had come to rest upon his shoulder.
Chen Ping'an continued on toward the eastern gate. Even if he could not get the money back, it was still worth trying to press the matter.
---
Back at the distant fortune-telling stall, the young Daoist sat with eyes closed in meditation. He spoke to himself in a low murmur: "Who is it that says the cycles of heaven's fortune show no favor?"
In his sleeve, two bamboo lots lay hidden — one the highest of all lots, one the lowest.