Ever since returning to his courtyard, Chen Ping'an's eyelids had been twitching without cease. The left eye twitches for wealth, the right eye for disaster.
So Chen Ping'an sat on the threshold and began to imagine himself throwing clay on the wheel. Both hands moved through the air, empty, and before long the boy in straw sandals had entered a state of self-forgetfulness. Diligence was one part of it, but more importantly, this act had the power to stave off hunger. Thus Chen Ping'an had long developed the habit of throwing imaginary clay whenever his heart was tangled with worry. In the firing of porcelain, nothing was more dependent on heaven's will than the opening of the kiln. Before that moment, no one could know whether a vessel's glaze color and shape would ultimately match the maker's intent — one could only submit to the judgment of heaven. But before the firing came the throwing — that was where the weight of the art lay. Yet Chen Ping'an, marked by Old Yao as a hopeless dullard, had mostly been assigned the brute work of kneading clay. He could only watch from the sidelines with the utmost care, observing and remembering — then mix his own clay and throw his own vessels in secret, seeking the feel of it.
From the next courtyard came the creak of the firewood gate. Song Jixin had returned from the schoolhouse with his maidservant Zhigui. The handsome youth made a running leap and vaulted easily onto the low dividing wall. Crouching, he opened his hand to reveal a collection of pebbles, each no bigger than a fingernail, in a range of colors — mutton-fat white, bean-green, white-lotus-root, and more. These worthless little stones, of varying sizes, could be found anywhere along the town's creek banks. The most prized among them was a vivid red that seemed steeped in chicken's blood. Teacher Qi had carved a seal from just such a stone for his student Zhao Yao. Song Jixin thought it had a certain appeal, and several times he had tried to trade something for it — the other boy refused every time, come what may.
Song Jixin flicked out a pebble with no great force. It struck Chen Ping'an in the chest. The boy did not react.
Another pebble, this time hitting the boy's forehead. Still Chen Ping'an remained as immovable as a mountain.
Song Jixin was long accustomed to this. *Pi-pi-pa-pa* — seven or eight more pebbles flew out. Though he fully intended to disrupt Chen Ping'an's concentration and cause him pain, Song Jixin deliberately avoided striking the boy's arms or fingers. To do so, he felt, would be a hollow victory.
With the pebbles all spent, Song Jixin dusted off his palms. Chen Ping'an let out a long breath and shook out his wrists, paying no attention to Song Jixin whatsoever. After a moment's thought, he lowered his head. The five fingers of his left hand curled as if gripping a carving knife.
The art of the leaping blade — among the old kiln masters of the town, this was not any one master's exclusive secret. But old Yao's hand in the leaping blade — whoever saw it could not help but give a thumbs-up.
Old Yao had taken on several apprentices over the years, yet none had ever managed to truly satisfy him. It was only when Liu Xianyang came along that the old man felt he had found someone worthy of inheriting his mantle. Back in those days, whenever Liu Xianyang practiced, if Chen Ping'an had no pressing work, he would crouch nearby and watch with fierce intensity.
Liu Xianyang prized his own face above all, and he also knew that Chen Ping'an's mouth was as tight as a sealed jar. So he would often show off by reciting Old Yao's secret formulas to dazzle the younger boy — sayings like, "If you want the blade's path to run steady, the hand cannot merely hold steady. At root, it is the heart that must be steady."
But when Chen Ping'an asked what it meant for the heart to be steady, Liu Xianyang was at a complete loss.
Song Jixin watched for a while, found it dull and flavorless, and hopped down from the wall into his own house.
The maidservant Zhigui stood by the wall. If she did not stand on tiptoe, the upper half of her face was just barely visible above it. But even so, one could already faintly tell that this girl would grow into a great beauty.
After thinking it over, she quietly rose on her toes. Her gaze fell on the area around the impoverished boy. At last, she spotted two stones that caught her eye — one a translucent blood-red, the other a moist, snow-white sheen. Both were stones her young master had tossed aside moments ago.
She hesitated, then lowered her voice and asked timidly, "Chen Ping'an... could you pick up those two stones for me? I... I like them quite a bit."
Chen Ping'an slowly lifted his head, his hands never pausing in their work, their motion still steady. With his eyes he signaled her to wait just a moment.
Zhigui broke into a sudden smile — like the first pale green shoot on a branch at spring's arrival. It was surpassingly beautiful.
But the boy had already lowered his head, and so missed this stirring sight.
The corners of her mouth curved upward. Her eyes seemed to glisten with flowing light, and in their depths — something impossibly subtle seemed to swim and drift.
When Chen Ping'an finally halted his work and asked which two stones she meant, the servant girl's eyes had already returned to normal — soft as spring mud after rain, just as they had always been.
Following the direction her finger pointed, Chen Ping'an picked up the two stones. He walked to the wall. She was just lifting her hand when the boy in straw sandals placed the stones directly on the wall's top.
She scooped up the two stones and held them tightly in her palm.
For one who searches deliberately — to find such a thing is like dredging the ocean for a needle. Ten years, and no meeting.
For one who is fated — even without intent, it is like picking up trash off the street. As easy as reaching out and closing a hand. Whether to take it or not is purely a matter of mood.
Chen Ping'an smiled. "Aren't you afraid that little snot-nosed brat will block your door and curse you for half the day?"
She would not admit that her young master had filched another person's belongings, but she seemed equally unable to deny the plain truth. So she only smiled and said nothing.
In Clay Bottle Alley lived a mother and son. Those two — when it came to the art of quarreling abuse, they had no match in all the town. Only Song Jixin could trade a few rounds with them. The child in particular was outrageously naughty — a pair of snot-trails forever dangling beneath his nose. He loved wading through the creek shallows to catch fish and gather stones. The fish he kept in a great water vat; the stones were piled beside it. Song Jixin, out of sheer perverse delight in provoking this little thorn, would come by every few days and casually walk off with a handful of stones. A day or two and the theft went unnoticed. But when enough stones went missing — the moment the child confirmed his treasures were gone, he would explode like a wildcat with its tail stepped on. He could stand outside the courtyard gate and curse for an hour straight. His mother never once dissuaded him; on the contrary, she would fan the flames with relish, deliberately picking at the old scab — that Song Jixin was the bastard son of the former kiln superintendent. More than once she had driven Song Jixin so mad with fury that he was on the verge of grabbing a stool and charging out for a brawl. It was only Zhigui, coaxing and pleading with all her might, who had managed to hold him back.
Suddenly, a sharp, piercing voice cut through the air. "Song Jixin! Song Jixin! Come quick — catch them in the act! Your maidservant and Chen Ping'an are making eyes at each other! Plain as day, they have hooked up! If you do not get your bed-warming maid under control, tonight she'll be climbing the wall and knocking on Chen Ping'an's door! Get out here, you! Tsk-tsk-tsk — Chen Ping'an's hand is practically on that little wench's face! You didn't see it — Chen Ping'an was smiling this disgustingly sleazy grin..."
Song Jixin did not show his face at all. From inside the house, he called back, "What is that? Last night I saw Chen Ping'an pulling and tugging at your mother! When I caught them, Chen Ping'an had to forcefully 'extract' his paw from down your mother's collar! And you can't blame your mother — that part of her is simply too magnificent, too generously filled! Poor Chen Ping'an was drenched in sweat from the effort..."
In the alley, someone was kicking furiously at Song Jixin's gate, yelling, "Song Jixin, come out! Single combat! If you lose, you hand Zhigui over to me as my maidservant — to feed me, make my bed, wash my feet for the rest of my days! If I lose, I hand Chen Ping'an to you as your peasant slave! How about it? Just answer — do you dare or not? Whoever chickens out is a turtle with its head pulled in!"
Inside, Song Jixin drawled lazily, "Go cool off somewhere! Your old man here checked the almanac — today is unfit for beating sons. Gu Can — count yourself lucky!"
The child outside hammered the gate with both fists. "Zhigui! Sticking with a cowardly young master like him — how stifling can it get? You'd be better off eloping with Liu Xianyang! That big dumb lug looks at you like he wants to eat you alive anyway."
The maidservant Zhigui turned and walked toward the house.
Inside, Song Jixin was carefully polishing a green jade gourd. It was an antique of uncertain age, one of the pieces of "family property" Magistrate Song had left behind. At first Song Jixin had paid it no mind. Then he accidentally discovered that every time thunder rolled in the rain, the gourd would hum and buzz inside. Yet when Song Jixin pulled out the stopper, no matter how he shook and waved it, nothing ever slid out. Pouring water in or filling it with sand — out came exactly water and sand, not a drop more, not a grain less. With no other recourse, and one day sorely provoked when that shrewish mother of Gu Can outside had torn into him with "born of a mother but raised without a father, you bastard," Song Jixin took a blade to the gourd in a fit of rage. The result left him dumbfounded. The blade's edge curled. The gourd remained wholly unmarred — without the faintest scratch.
A letter Song Jixin had burned years ago read: "In the official residence and this small courtyard, gold, silver, and copper coin have been set aside, sufficient to ensure that you master and servant shall lack neither food nor clothing. In your idle hours, you may search for antiques that please the eye, and let them be a pastime to refine your temperament. Small though this town may be — coarse grain can nourish the stomach, books can nourish the qi, scenery can nourish the eyes, and solitude can nourish the heart. From this day forward, exhaust the human effort and await heaven's decree. The hidden dragon lies in the abyss — in days to come, blessed reward will surely come."
Though Song Jixin resented that man to the bone, having money and not spending it was a sin that would draw thunderbolts from heaven. In a town of simple, honest folk, it was hard to throw money around even if you wanted to. Yet over the years, Song Jixin had indeed grown quite fond of collecting junk. An entire red-lacquered chest, stuffed to the brim with thirty-some oddities — all eccentric trinkets like that green gourd. But Song Jixin had a mysterious intuition, something beyond words, that told him: among that whole chest of thirty-odd curios, this gourd was the most precious. Next came a rust-flecked purple-gold bell that, when shaken, you could clearly see the clapper striking the inner wall to produce sound — yet no sound ever came. This both chilled Song Jixin to the bone and filled him with wonder. And last of all, an antique teapot signed with the name "Mountain Sprite." As for the rest — Song Jixin's fondness for them was shallow. They could not be called love at first sight.
The child named Gu Can stood outside the gate, cursing at the top of his lungs in full, vigorous voice.
Then, without warning — the cursing stopped dead.
And Chen Ping'an saw that little brat burst through the gate of his own courtyard, panicked and ashen. The child immediately bolted the gate, then crouched by the door flashing urgent signals with his eyes for Chen Ping'an to crouch beside him.
Chen Ping'an had no idea what was happening, but he stooped low and crept over to the child's side. Crouching, he whispered, "Gu Can, what are you doing? Did you make your mother angry again?"
The child sniffled hard and lowered his voice to a thread. "Chen Ping'an, I have to tell you — I just ran into a monster. The bowl he carries — that white bowl — water never stops pouring out of it! Look — a bowl this small, and I saw with my own eyes — the water poured for an hour! The man — he passed the mouth of Clay Bottle Alley just now and it seemed like he stopped. Did he see me? This is bad, this is really bad..."
The child's two hands traced the size of the bowl in the air, then he slapped his own chest and sighed. "Really scared the father of Song Jixin to death."
Chen Ping'an asked, "You mean that storyteller from beneath the locust tree?"
The child nodded furiously. "That is him exactly! His hands have no strength — couldn't even lift me up. But that broken bowl of his — it is truly hair-raising! Enough to make your hair stand straight up!"
The child suddenly seized Chen Ping'an's arm. "Chen Ping'an, this time I really am not lying! I can swear an oath — if I am lying, may Song Jixin die a horrible death!"
Chen Ping'an raised a finger to his lips.
The child snapped his mouth shut at once.
From beyond the gate came the sound of footsteps — rising, then falling.
Everything has its natural vanquisher.
This child who ordinarily feared nothing under heaven slumped to the ground, wiping his face with a careless swipe of his hand. His face was white as paper. It was plain to see — this little snot-nosed brat named Gu Can had been frightened half to death.
The child blurted out, "Chen Ping'an — that guy — he didn't go to my house, did he? What do I do?"
Helplessly, Chen Ping'an said, "How about I walk you back to take a look?"
The child was clearly waiting for exactly those words. He shot to his feet — and collapsed back down, face crumpled in despair. "Chen Ping'an — my legs are jelly. I can't walk."
Chen Ping'an stood, bent over, and seized the child by the back of the collar. With one hand hoisting him up, he opened the bolt with the other and stepped out of the courtyard.
The child's house was not far — barely a hundred paces. Sure enough, Gu Can saw that old man standing right in his own courtyard. And his mother — she had actually pulled out a stool for the old man to sit on.
In that instant, the child felt the heavens themselves had collapsed. So he chose to hide behind Chen Ping'an. Let the tall one take the brunt.
Chen Ping'an did not disappoint him. Without conscious thought, he shielded the child with his own body.
The moment the brat Gu Can clutched Chen Ping'an's sleeve, a surge of reckless courage filled his chest.
The old man took no offense at any of this. Seated on the stool, he pondered a moment — and the white bowl in his hand vanished into thin air.
Gu Can's legs instantly turned to jelly again. He cowered entirely behind Chen Ping'an, trembling in every limb.
The old man glanced at the country woman whose expression was remarkably calm, then at the frowning boy in straw sandals. At last, he addressed the child who was hiding head tucked, tail between his legs. "Little one — do you know what it is you have been raising in that water vat?"
From behind Chen Ping'an, the child shouted, "What else could it be? Fish, shrimp, and crabs I scooped from the creek! Loaches and eels I hooked from the paddies! If you like them, take them! No need to be polite..."
The child's voice dwindled lower and lower — clearly lacking in conviction.
The woman smoothed a stray lock of hair from her temple and looked toward Chen Ping'an, her voice gentle. "Ping'an."
Chen Ping'an understood her meaning. He ruffled Gu Can's hair, then turned and left.
In the depths of the woman's eyes, toward this boy in straw sandals, there flickered a hidden note of guilt.
She cast aside her stray thoughts and turned to the old man. "Honored immortal master from afar — regarding this fated chance — do you intend to buy it, or steal it?"
The old man shook his head with a smile. "Buy? I could never afford it. Steal? I could never take it."
The woman shook her head in return. "That was before. The days to come — they may not be the same."
The old man, who had been perfectly at ease, was struck as if by a thunderbolt. His sleeve swept violently and his fingers flew through calculations.
At last, he let out a deep, mournful sigh. "How could it have come to this!"
The woman's face was cold, her voice dripping with contempt. "Immortal Master — how many good people do you imagine live in this little town?"
The old man rose to his feet. He looked deeply at the uncomprehending child, as if he had made a decision of earthshaking magnitude. With a flick of his wrist, the white bowl reappeared.
The old man walked to the half-man-high water vat and quickly scooped out a single bowl of water.
Though the woman affected perfect composure, her palms were soaked with sweat.
The old man sat back down on the stool and beckoned to Gu Can. "Little one — come. Take a look."
The child looked at his mother. She nodded, her eyes brimming with encouragement.
After the child drew near, the old man blew a soft breath across the water's surface. Ripples spread in circles.
"Open your mouth," the old man said with a smile.
At the same time, his hand brushed casually — and from somewhere on the child's person, he drew out a single locust leaf.
Between two fingers, he held it — loosely, not grasping it solidly.
The child involuntarily let out an "ah."
The old man curled his finger and flicked, and the locust leaf, green as if ready to drip, flew into the child's mouth.
The child stood frozen. Then he realized there was nothing in his mouth at all.
Without giving him a chance to ask, the old man pointed at the white bowl cradled in his palm. "Look closely. Tell me what you see."
Gu Can opened his eyes wide and peered with all his concentration. He saw first a single pinpoint, so small it was nearly invisible. Then it gradually became a slightly noticeable black thread. Then, at last, it slowly swelled, as if transforming into a tiny, earth-yellow loach — tumbling and rolling joyfully through the rippling surface of the bowl's water.
A flash of insight struck the child's muddled brain. He cried out in shock, "I remember it! It came from Chen Ping'an—"
The woman slapped her son hard across the face and roared, "Shut your mouth!"
The old man was entirely unsurprised. Calmly, he said, "We who walk the path of cultivation — for the sake of proving our longevity, we defy heaven and trample upon what is right. This trifling struggle means nothing. There is no need to be so nervous. What belongs to your son shall not escape him. What should never have belonged to that boy — he could not have kept it."
This child named Gu Can — he weighed less than forty jin.
But the weight of his very bone and marrow — it was beyond all reason.
That was why, when this bowl-bearing old man, bearing a secret divine art, had attempted to read the boy's bones and weigh his fortune, he had naturally been unable to lift Gu Can.
This was the prerequisite for taking a disciple.
Otherwise — a three-year-old child, carrying gold through the marketplace — was that not simply courting death?
The old man gave a careless laugh, but his eyes were cold as ice. He spoke slowly: "Of course — even if this were originally that boy's — so what? Now that this old man personally oversees matters — it is no longer his."
The child shuddered, teeth clacking together in terror.
The woman let out a long, relieved breath.
The old man resumed his kindly, benevolent expression. "Child — this bowl holds an entire river's worth of water. And now, it is also home to a little flood dragon. From this moment onward, you are my true lineage disciple."
"This old man is a True Lord. I stand only half a step from becoming a Founding Patriarch. Though of the lower branches... well, in time, you will naturally come to understand the weight of those four words: True Lord, Founding Patriarch."
The old man let out a hearty laugh. "They will weigh heavier than this bowl of river water."
Suddenly, the child began to cry. "This is not right! It belongs to Chen Ping'an!"
The woman was furious and mortified. She raised her arm high, ready to teach her pig-headed fool of a son another lesson.
The old man waved his hand and smiled, speaking as if it were the most trivial thing in the world. "To possess such a heart — that is not entirely a bad thing."
The child lowered his head and wiped away tears and snot alike with the back of his hand.
The woman cast a surreptitious glance at the old man.
He smiled knowingly and gave the barest nod.
Kindred spirits. Everything understood, nothing needing to be spoken aloud.
When the child raised his head, his mother and this master who had inexplicably fallen from the heavens — both wore faint smiles.
The child turned his head. When Chen Ping'an had left, he had not forgotten to close the courtyard gate.
---
The small town was like a field of grain, and a great harvest season had arrived.
But there were always some who were merely a stalk of barnyard grass, mixed among the rice. Once glanced at — never seen again.
Such as the boy in straw sandals, walking alone through Clay Bottle Alley.