Chen Ping'an arrived at the eastern gate and found the slovenly man seated cross-legged on a tree stump beside the railing, lazily basking in the early spring sun. His eyes were closed, he was humming a tune, and both hands patted rhythmically against his knees.
Chen Ping'an crouched down beside him. For a boy like him, bringing up a debt was something terribly hard to put into words.
He could only gaze quietly eastward down the broad, open road — winding and long, like a thick yellow serpent stretching into the distance.
From force of habit, he scooped up a handful of earth and held it in his palm, slowly working it between his fingers.
He had once followed Old Yao over hills and ridges all around the town, bearing a heavy pack stuffed with hatchets, hoes, and every manner of tool — loaded to the brim. Under the old man's direction they would stop here and there, and Chen Ping'an would often have to "eat earth." He would take a handful of soil straight into his mouth, chewing and savoring the taste with care. Over time, practice made perfect. Chen Ping'an could now judge the quality of soil just by rubbing it between his fingers. It had gone so far that, in later days, when handling broken shards from the old kilns on the market, he could tell from their weight alone which kiln they came from — and even which master had fired them.
Though Old Yao's nature was cold and withdrawn, harsh and unyielding — lashing out and scolding Chen Ping'an at every turn — there was one incident that stood out. The old man, disgusted with Chen Ping'an's utter lack of comprehension, his sheer stupidity that refused to be opened, once simply abandoned him in the desolate wilderness and returned to the kiln alone. By the time the boy had walked sixty li of mountain roads and neared that dragon kiln, it was deep in the night. Rain poured down in torrents. When the boy, stumbling and staggering through the mud, finally made out a single point of light in the distance — it was the first time that stubborn orphan, since he had begun clawing out a living on his own, had ever felt the urge to weep.
Yet the boy never once blamed the old man, let alone held a grudge.
This impoverished boy had never read a book, but he understood one truth that lay beyond books: in this world, aside from one's father and mother, no one else owes you kindness as a matter of course.
And his father and mother — they had gone early.
Chen Ping'an possessed the patience to sit in a daze, but the slovenly man plainly felt there was no way to muddle through this time. Opening his eyes, he grinned and said, "It is just five coppers. A man so petty will never amount to much."
With a helpless look, Chen Ping'an replied, "Are you not also keeping score over this?"
The man bared his teeth, revealing an uneven row of yellowed teeth. He chuckled. "Exactly. So if you do not want to end up a bachelor like me, stop pestering me over five coppers."
Chen Ping'an sighed, lifted his head, and said in earnest, "If you truly are short on money, then let these five coppers go. But we must agree in advance — from now on, it is one copper per letter, and you cannot renege on that."
The man, reeking of sour decay from head to toe, turned his head and looked at the boy, eyes narrowing with a smile. "Little one, with a temper like yours — stubborn as a stone in a latrine pit — you are bound to suffer great losses in the future. Have you never heard the old saying, to suffer loss is to gain fortune? If you are unwilling even to suffer small losses..."
His gaze fell upon the dirt in the boy's hand. He paused, then added with a hint of mockery, "Then yours is the fate of facing the yellow earth, your back to the blue sky."
Chen Ping'an countered, "Did I not just say I would let the five coppers go? Does that not count as suffering a small loss?"
The man found himself stung and at a loss. Annoyed, he waved his hand as if shooing away a fly. "Go on, get out. Talking with you, boy, is pure aggravation."
Chen Ping'an opened his fingers and let the dirt fall. Rising, he said, "Tree stumps carry heavy damp..."
The man lifted his head and barked out a laugh. "Now I need you to lecture me? A young man's yang qi is strong enough to bake flatcakes on his backside!"
He turned his head and watched the boy's retreating figure, then twisted his mouth into a grimace and muttered something under his breath — it sounded like a curse directed at the heavens themselves.
---
Teacher Qi, the village schoolmaster, had ended lessons unusually early today for reasons unknown.
Behind the schoolhouse lay a small yard, and set into its north wall was a low, humble firewood gate that led out into the bamboo grove.
Song Jixin and his maidservant had been listening to stories beneath the old locust tree when someone came to summon him for a game of Go. Song Jixin was none too willing, but the messenger said it was Teacher Qi's wish — he wanted to see whether their skill at the board had improved. Toward the stern and unsmiling Teacher Qi, Song Jixin harbored a feeling he could not quite name. Perhaps it could be called both reverence and fear. So when Teacher Qi himself issued this imperial decree, Song Jixin had no choice but to go. Still, he insisted on hearing the storyteller's tale to the end before heading to the schoolhouse yard. The blue-robed youth who had delivered the message had no alternative but to return alone first, though he had pressed Song Jixin not to arrive too late, fussing and fretting with the same old refrain: "My teacher is most particular about rules and decorum. He does not like others to break their word," and so forth.
At the time, Song Jixin had been digging at his ear with one finger, thoroughly impatient, muttering, "I know, I know."
When Song Jixin finally arrived at the schoolhouse yard with Zhigui at his side, a cool breeze stirred. The bookish youth in his blue scholar's robe was seated as usual on the southern stool — back straight, posture prim and proper.
Song Jixin plopped himself down opposite the youth, sitting north and facing south.
Teacher Qi sat to the west, true to his habit of watching the game in silence.
As always, whenever her young master played Go, the maidservant Zhigui would withdraw to the bamboo grove so as not to disturb the three "scholars." Today was no different.
In this backwater town, there were no true households of scholarly pedigree. Men of letters were as rare as phoenix feathers and qilin horns.
By the rules Teacher Qi had laid down long ago, Song Jixin and the blue-robed youth would draw for stones — the one who guessed correctly would play black and move first.
Song Jixin and his opponent, though the same age, had begun learning Go at almost the same time. But Song Jixin's natural talent was extraordinary. His skill advanced by leaps and bounds, so that Teacher Qi, who taught them both, regarded him as the stronger player. At the draw, Song Jixin would first take a concealed handful of white stones from the bowl, their number known only to himself. The blue-robed youth would then lay down one or two black stones to bet on whether the white count was odd or even. Guessing right, he would play black and hold the advantage of the first move. In the first two years of their matches, whether Song Jixin played white and moved second or black and moved first, he had never lost a single game.
But Song Jixin took little real interest in Go. He approached it with half a heart, fishing for three days and drying his nets for two. By contrast, his opponent, though inferior in talent, was both a student at the school and Teacher Qi's study attendant. Spending every waking moment in the teacher's company, even silently observing the master poring over game records in solitude, had brought the youth immense benefit. So the blue-robed youth had progressed from winning the occasional lucky game only when playing black, to now — when he held black — fighting Song Jixin to a fifty-fifty split. His growing command of technique and tactics was plain to see.
Teacher Qi had offered no comment on this shifting balance, standing by with his hands in his sleeves.
Song Jixin was just about to scoop up the stones when Teacher Qi suddenly spoke. "Today, you shall play a game of seated-stone Go. White moves first."
Both boys were baffled, neither having any idea what "seated-stone Go" could mean.
Teacher Qi's voice was unhurried, neither fast nor slow. After he carefully explained the rules — not complicated at all, merely placing black and white stones at each of the four star points — the boys understood.
The middle-aged man's way of pinching a stone and placing it on the board — practiced and flowing, effortless as drifting clouds and running water — was a pleasure to watch.
The blue-robed youth, who ordinarily prized rules above all else, stared at the board in stunned disbelief at this "dreadful news." At last he ventured cautiously, "Teacher, with this arrangement... it seems many of the established patterns can no longer be used."
Song Jixin furrowed his brow in thought, then his eyes lit up and his brow smoothed. "The board's territory has shrunk," he said.
Then, like a student seeking praise, he lifted his head and asked with a smile, "Is that right, Teacher Qi?"
The middle-aged scholar nodded. "Indeed it is."
Song Jixin raised an eyebrow at the boy across from him and asked with a grin, "Shall I give you a two-stone head start? Otherwise this fellow will surely lose."
The youth opposite flushed crimson, stammering wordlessly. He knew perfectly well that his growing number of victories came not only from his own improved skill. The true reason was that Song Jixin, these past two years, had grown increasingly distracted with each game — to the point of outright impatience. Many decisive hands, Song Jixin had deliberately let slip. Or else, with his opening clearly dominant, he would grow restless mid-game and recklessly court danger for the sake of slaughtering the dragon.
For Song Jixin, playing Go — whether it was fun or not, interesting or not — that came first.
For the blue-robed youth, ever since his fingers first set a stone upon the board, he had been fixated on a single word: victory.
Teacher Qi looked toward his own student. "You may play white and move first."
What followed was a game of extreme contrasts. The blue-robed youth placed each stone slowly, with scrupulous caution, advancing inch by inch. Song Jixin, as always, dropped his stones as fast as flying, bold and sweeping, antelope hanging by its horns and leaving no tracks.
Their two natures could not have been more different.
Before even eighty moves had passed, the blue-robed youth had suffered a complete rout. He hung his head in silence, lips pressed tight.
Song Jixin rested his elbow on the table, chin propped in his palm, idly tapping a stone against the tabletop with two fingers as he stared at the board.
By Teacher Qi's rules, when two players faced off, silently laying down a stone was enough to concede. One must never speak the words "I lose."
The blue-robed youth, however unwilling, at last laid down his stone in surrender.
Teacher Qi instructed his student, "Go practice your calligraphy. No need to clear the board. Write the character 'eternity' three hundred times."
The youth rose hastily and made a formal bow of farewell before leaving.
Once the youth's figure had vanished, Song Jixin quietly asked, "Teacher — are you also about to leave this place?"
The refined scholar, both temples touched with frost, nodded. "Within ten days, I shall be gone."
Song Jixin smiled. "That works out well. I can still see my teacher off."
The schoolmaster hesitated a moment, but at last opened his mouth to speak. "There is no need to see me off. Song Jixin — when you leave this town and enter the wider world, remember not to be too ostentatious. I have nothing of value to give. These three elementary texts — *Elementary Learning*, *Rites and Music*, *Contemplation* — you may take them all and study them often. You must know that reading a book a hundred times reveals its meaning of itself. And if one can read until ten thousand volumes are worn through, then the brush will flow as if divinely guided. The true essence of this... you will come to understand in time. As for these three leisure books — *Subtlety* on the art of calculation, *Peach and Plum* on the game of Go, *Collections from the Mountains and Seas* — you may browse them at your ease. They can nourish the spirit and refine the character."
Song Jixin's face was a study in surprise, and he looked decidedly awkward. Summoning his nerve, he said, "Teacher, this sounds rather like 'entrusting an orphan.' It makes me most uncomfortable."
Teacher Qi's face was wreathed in smiles. Gently, he said, "It is not nearly so dramatic. In this life, what place shall we not meet again? There will surely come a day when we see one another once more."
When this gentleman smiled, it was as if a spring breeze wrapped around you.
He suddenly said, "Go to Zhao Yao and take a look. Consider it an early farewell."
Song Jixin rose with a grin. "Right away, then. I shall trouble the teacher to clear the board."
The youth trotted off merrily.
The scholar bent down to put away the stones. To a casual eye they lay scattered east and west in wild disorder — but in truth, he gathered them black first, then white. Beginning with the very last stone Song Jixin had placed, he worked backward in reverse sequence, not a single stone out of place.
At some unknown moment, the maidservant Zhigui had returned from the bamboo grove. She stood just outside the firewood gate, not setting foot into the yard.
Without turning his head, the man spoke in a deep voice. "Behave yourself."
The girl who had grown up in Clay Bottle Alley wore an expression of pure confusion — soft, frail, timid, pitifully endearing.
The gentle, cultivated scholar's face flickered with a trace of anger. Slowly, he turned his head.
His gaze was cold as ice.
The girl still looked dazed and uncomprehending.
Innocent as a blank sheet.
The middle-aged man of letters rose to his feet, straight and tall as a jade tree. He looked at the girl and gave a cold laugh. "Wicked spawn — perverse seed of rebellion!"
The girl slowly shed the innocent look from her face. Her eyes grew chill, and the corners of her lips curled in mockery.
She seemed to say: What can you do to me?
And so she met the scholar's stare directly, without flinching.
Inside the small yard and out — it was as if two great serpents locked in a standoff.
Between the two of them, their gazes held like mortal enemies.
From far away, Song Jixin's voice rang out. "Zhigui! We are going home!"
The girl immediately rose on tiptoe and answered obediently, "Yes — coming, Young Master."
She pushed open the brushwood gate and trotted past the teacher, brushing within inches of him. A few steps beyond, she did not forget to turn around and offer that broad back a formal curtsy, her voice soft and pleasing. "Teacher — Zhigui takes her leave."
A long while later, the scholar let out a sigh.
A warm spring breeze stirred. The bamboo leaves swayed and rustled, like the sound of turning pages.
---
The young Daoist in his lotus crown was packing up his stall, sighing and lamenting without end. When townsfolk who knew him asked what was the matter, he only shook his head and would not answer.
At last, a newlywed woman who had once had her marriage fortune told here happened to pass by. Seeing the young Daoist in such a strange state, she bashfully stopped, her voice as soft as rice cake. Her mouth asked questions, but those eloquent, glistening eyes roamed greedily over the Daoist's handsome features.
The young Daoist shot her a veiled glance, his gaze dipping slightly downward to take in that bulging landscape — then he swallowed and recited a line of cryptic divination verse: "Today, this poor Daoist cast his own fortune. The lower lot. Great misfortune."