The small town was neither large nor small, home to some six hundred households. Chen Ping'an knew most of the poorer families by name. As for the wealthy households with their deep coffers — their thresholds were high, and a mud-footed boy could not very well step across them. There were broad alleyways clustered with great houses that Chen Ping'an had never once set foot in. The streets there were paved with great slabs of blue stone. On rainy days a foot would never splash through mud; those stones, of the finest quality, had been trodden and rolled over by men and horses through ages beyond counting, until they were polished smooth as mirrors.
The surnames Lu, Li, Zhao, and Song were the great families of the town. It was these households that had funded the village school. Most of them owned two or three great dragon kilns beyond the city walls. The official residences of successive kiln superintendents stood on the same street as these families.
Unfortunately for him, of the ten letters Chen Ping'an had to deliver today, nearly all went to the town's most celebrated rich households. This was only natural — dragons father dragons, phoenixes father phoenixes, and the offspring of rats dig burrows. A wayfaring son far from home who could afford to send letters home must surely come from a decent family; otherwise he would never have had the means to set out on such a journey. Of those ten letters, Chen Ping'an actually had only two destinations to visit: Fortune Deer Street and Peach Leaf Lane. When he first set foot on blue stones as big as bed planks, the boy grew nervous, slowed his pace, and even felt a pang of self-conscious shame — he could not help feeling that his straw sandals were sullying the pavement.
The first letter Chen Ping'an delivered was to the Lu family, whose ancestors had once received an imperial jade ruyi scepter from the Emperor himself. Standing at their gate, the boy grew more restless and uneasy by the moment.
Wealthy folk had so many niceties about them. The Lu residence was enormous to begin with, and a pair of stone lions, each as tall as a man, flanked the entrance with imposing ferocity. Song Jixin had told him such beasts could ward off evil and suppress misfortune. Chen Ping'an had no idea what evil or misfortune even meant, but he was very curious how artisans had managed to carve that round stone ball that seemed to sit rolling in the lions' mouths. Suppressing his urge to reach out and touch it, the boy climbed the steps and knocked on the bronze doorknocker shaped like a lion's head. Before long a young man opened the door. Hearing that a letter had arrived, the man kept his face completely blank, used two fingers to pinch one corner of the envelope, took the family letter, then turned and walked briskly into the residence, slamming shut the great door — which bore a painted image of the God of Wealth.
The boy's subsequent deliveries were all just as unremarkable. At the corner of Peach Leaf Lane there was a household of no particular renown. The one who opened the door was a kindly-faced old man, short of stature. After tucking away the letter, he smiled and said, "Young man, you have worked hard. Why not come in and rest a while? Have a cup of hot water."
The boy gave a bashful smile, shook his head, and ran off.
The old man slipped the family letter gently into his sleeve. He did not hurry back inside. Instead he raised his head and gazed into the distance, his sight clouded and dim.
Finally his gaze, falling from high to low and from far to near, came to rest on the peach trees lining the street on either side. The old man, who seemed so aged and fading, managed at last to squeeze out a faint smile.
Then he turned and went back inside.
Not long after, a small yellow bird of lovely color alighted on a peach branch. Its beak was still tender and young, and it gave a soft chirp.
The last letter left to deliver — Chen Ping'an had to bring it to the schoolteacher who taught at the village school. On his way he passed a fortune-telling stall, where a young Daoist priest in a threadbare old robe sat erect behind the table. On his head he wore a tall crown, like an unfurling lotus blossom.
The young Daoist caught sight of the boy running past and promptly called out, "Young man, do not miss what passes you by! Come draw a lot. This poor Daoist will cast your fortune, and tell you your fate — fortune or misfortune, blessing or disaster."
Chen Ping'an did not stop. He merely turned his head and waved a hand.
The Daoist refused to give up. He leaned forward, raising his voice. "Young man, on ordinary days this poor Daoist charges ten coppers to interpret a lot. Today I shall make an exception — only three coppers! And of course, should you draw an auspicious lot, you might add one more copper as a gift of thanks. If great luck smiles on you and you draw a supremely auspicious lot, this poor Daoist will still only charge five coppers. How about it?"
Far off, Chen Ping'an's steps clearly faltered for a moment. The young Daoist leaped to his feet, pressing his advantage and calling out even louder, "Early in the morning, young man, you are my first guest of the day. This poor Daoist may as well do good to the full. If only you will sit and draw a lot — to speak plainly — this poor Daoist knows how to write yellow paper talismans. I can offer blessings for your ancestors and accumulate hidden virtue for the departed. With my meager skill, I dare not promise to send someone to be reborn into great wealth and honor, but to add a little share of blessed reward — well, it is at least worth a try."
Chen Ping'an was startled. Half believing and half doubting, he turned around and walked back. He sat on the long bench before the stall.
A plain-robed Daoist, a shabby boy — two penniless souls, sitting face to face.
The Daoist smiled and gestured for the boy to take up the lot tube.
Chen Ping'an hesitated, then suddenly spoke. "I will not draw a lot. Would it be all right if you only wrote one yellow paper talisman for me?"
In Chen Ping'an's memory, this young Daoist who had drifted into town had already been here at least five or six years. His appearance had barely changed. He was pleasant to everyone. On ordinary days he did bone-reading and physiognomy, cast fortunes and interpreted lots, and occasionally wrote family letters for others. What was amusing was that the lot tube stuffed with one hundred and eight bamboo slips, over all these years, had never once yielded a supremely auspicious lot to any man or woman of the town — nor had anyone ever shaken a lowly lot out of it. It was as if all one hundred and eight slips were middling-or-better, not a single one bad.
So during festivals and holidays, if it was purely to seek a bit of good fortune, the common folk of the town could accept spending ten coppers. But when they had real troubles on their minds, certainly no one would come here to be a fool taken for a ride. But to call this Daoist a thorough charlatan — that would be doing the man an injustice. The town was only so big. If he only knew how to conjure spirits and swindle people, he would long since have been chased out. So this young Daoist's true skill surely had nothing to do with divination. There were, however, many minor ailments and afflictions; quite a number of people, after drinking a single bowl of his talisman water, recovered swiftly. It was remarkably efficacious.
The young Daoist shook his head. "This poor Daoist deals honestly with old and young alike. As I said, interpreting the lot plus writing the talisman — together, that is five coppers."
Chen Ping'an argued in a low voice, "Three coppers."
The Daoist laughed heartily. "And if you should draw a supremely auspicious lot — why, then it would be five coppers, would it not."
Chen Ping'an steeled himself, reached out to take the lot tube, then suddenly raised his head and asked, "Daoist, how did you know that I happen to have exactly five coppers on me?"
The Daoist sat up straight and proper. "This poor Daoist is always accurate in weighing a person's fortune, thick or thin, and gauging the abundance of their wealth."
Chen Ping'an thought it over, then took up the lot tube.
The Daoist smiled. "Young man, do not be nervous. When fate decrees something yours, in the end it shall be yours. When fate does not, forcing it is pointless. Face the impermanent affairs of life with an even mind — that is the foremost perfect method."
Chen Ping'an set the lot tube back on the table, his expression solemn. "Daoist, I will give you all five coppers. I will not draw a lot. I only ask that you write that yellow paper talisman even better than you usually do. Is that all right?"
The Daoist's smile did not change. After a moment's consideration he nodded. "It can be done."
On the table the ink, brush, inkstone, and paper had long been laid out. The Daoist carefully asked after the names, native places, and birth dates of Chen Ping'an's father and mother, then drew out a sheet of yellow talisman paper and wrote upon it in one breath, all at once.
As for what he wrote, Chen Ping'an had no idea at all.
Setting down the brush, the Daoist lifted the talisman by its edge and blew on the wet ink. "Take it home. Stand just inside the threshold and burn the yellow paper outside it. That will suffice."
The boy received the talisman with solemn ceremony and carefully treasured it away. He did not forget to lay the five copper coins on the table and bow in thanks.
The young Daoist waved his sleeve, signaling the boy to go about his business.
Chen Ping'an took off at a run to deliver the last letter.
The Daoist leaned back lazily in his chair. He glanced at the coppers, bent down, and scooped them toward himself.
Just at that moment, a tiny yellow bird, exquisitely delicate, swooped down from high above onto the tabletop, gave one copper coin a light peck, quickly lost interest, and flapped its wings and flew away.
"The yellow bird was just about to come bearing a flower in its beak — but in your garden the peach blossoms have yet to open."
The Daoist leisurely recited this line of verse, then made an artfully casual wave of his sleeve, sighed, and said, "Fate grants only eight spans — do not covet ten."
With that one wave of the sleeve, two bamboo slips slid out and clattered to the ground. The Daoist let out an "aiyo" and hastily bent to scoop them up. He looked furtively all around; finding that no one was paying attention just then, he sighed in relief and tucked the two slips back into his loose sleeve.
The young Daoist coughed, composed his face into a dignified mask, and returned to his game of waiting for the next rabbit to run into his stump.
He could not help reflecting that truly, it was easier to earn money off women.
The truth was, those two bamboo slips hidden in the young Daoist's sleeve — one supremely auspicious, the other supremely low — were both meant to earn him great sums of silver.
But that was not for outsiders to know.
Naturally, the boy was unaware of these hidden subtleties. His steps were light all along the way until he reached the village schoolhouse. Nearby, a grove of bamboo stood lush and dense, so green it seemed ready to drip.
Chen Ping'an slowed his pace. From within the room came a man's mellow, resonant voice: "At sunrise there is brightness; the lambskin robe seems moist with dew."
Then a chorus of young voices, neat and crisp, rang out in response: "At sunrise there is brightness; the lambskin robe seems moist with dew."
Chen Ping'an lifted his head and looked up. The morning sun was rising in the east, brilliant and vast.
The boy stood there staring, lost in a daze.
When he came back to himself, the schoolchildren were swaying their heads from side to side, reciting a passage fluently as their teacher had required: "At the Awakening of Insects, heaven and earth bring forth life, and the ten thousand things begin to flourish. Lie down at night and rise early, walk abroad in the courtyard; the gentleman walks slowly, that his will-to-life may be nurtured..."
Chen Ping'an stood at the schoolhouse gate, yearning to speak yet holding back.
The middle-aged scholar, his temples tinged with gray, turned his head and caught sight of him. Quietly, he stepped out of the room.
Chen Ping'an proffered the letter with both hands and said with respect, "A letter for you, sir."
The tall man in the blue robe took the envelope and said warmly, "When you have nothing to do, you may come and sit in on the lessons more often."
Chen Ping'an was somewhat troubled, for he truly might not have the time to come and hear this gentleman teach. The boy did not wish to deceive him.
The man smiled, reading his mind with kind understanding. "No matter. All the principles lie within books, but how to conduct oneself lies beyond them. Go, attend to your affairs."
Chen Ping'an let out a breath of relief, took his leave, and departed.
After running a great distance away, the boy — as if stirred by some mysterious impulse — turned his head and looked back.
There stood the teacher, still at the gate, his figure bathed in the sunlight. Seen from afar, he was like a divine being.