Eyes under the old locust tree
In the center of Linshan Town, a century-old locust tree stands tall and majestic, making it a natural summer resort for the town.
Under the tree stood a simple tea stall, with a few worn-out square tables, a few long benches, a pot of coarse tea, and a few copper coins—enough to while away half a day.
On ordinary days, it is a bustling and lively place where traveling merchants take a break, old men chat, or day laborers wait for work.
These past few days, perhaps because of the hot weather, the regulars at the tea stall have noticed that the shadiest table in the corner is always being "occupied" by a few unfamiliar tea drinkers. The one in the lead is a refined middle-aged man in his early forties, wearing a slightly worn indigo cotton long gown, looking like a down-on-his-luck schoolteacher or accountant.
He claimed his surname was Wu and said he came from a neighboring county to collect some mountain products.
He was a man of few words, always slowly savoring the cheapest coarse tea.
In front of him lay a well-worn copy of the Three Character Classic.
Occasionally, he would even solemnly point out the calligraphy practice books of the stall owner, Old Sun, whose grandson was seven or eight years old.
It seemed perfectly ordinary. But Old Sun had a lot on his mind.
Mr. Wu, a tea drinker, arrived at dawn to reserve a seat and stayed there all day until sunset.
I always order the cheapest pot of tea, paired with two dry, hard steamed buns, which is enough to last me a day.
Buying mountain goods?
I never saw him speak to any of the mountain people, let alone accept any goods from them.
His eyes, seemingly focused on reading or playing with children, were actually always glancing unnoticed at the intersection—the main road leading to Qingzhou City, and another dirt road branching off towards the Shen family manor and workshops.
Opposite Mr. Wu sat a dark-skinned, weathered old farmer-looking man.
The man wore a tattered straw hat, a patched coarse cloth jacket, and a pair of straw sandals covered in mud.
He was taciturn, only drinking tea in silence and occasionally taking a puff of his pipe.
He seemed uninterested in everything around him, focusing only on the bowl of coarse tea in front of him.
However, when a mule-drawn cart, especially a caravan marked with a heavy stamp, passes by on the main road, kicking up dust, the "old farmer's" hand under the table will twitch almost imperceptibly, as if he is silently counting the number of wheels or noting the depth and direction of the ruts.
There was another person sitting on a bench a little further away, like a peddler going from street to street, with his carrying pole placed at his feet.
He seemed the most energetic.
He often chatted with merchants or day laborers resting nearby, asking about prices in Qingzhou City, which shops were doing well, what was happening at the Shen Family Manor, and whether the workshops were hiring day laborers.
He asked the question cleverly, as if it were just casual conversation, but his darting eyes were always watching the reactions of everyone at the tea stall.
Especially those who are sensitive to topics related to the Shen family.
For the first few days, the townspeople just thought these people were a bit strange, but they didn't pay much attention.
That afternoon, a purchasing manager from the Shen family manor drove a mule cart loaded with rice, flour, oil, and salt, turning off the dirt road leading to the manor, heading back to the city. As the cart passed a tea stall, the peddler immediately greeted him warmly, holding up several trinkets from his load: "Manager! Newly arrived rattle drums, want to buy one for your child? Cheap!"
The steward, in a hurry to get going, waved his hand, saying, "No, no!"
The peddler, however, persisted, following the cart relentlessly, chattering: "Sir, look at the load on your cart! Master Shen is truly wealthy and powerful! I heard your young master has gone to the mountains to cultivate in peace at such a young age? How fortunate he is, able to study in tranquility! Unlike us, destined for a life of toil..."
The steward casually replied, "Yes, the young master has gone to the mountains." With that, he cracked the whip, and the mule cart sped away.
The peddler stood there, the smile on his face vanishing instantly.
He walked back to the tea stall and gave an almost imperceptible nod to "Mr. Wu".
Just then, a bricklayer at the next table, half-drunk, started slurring his words: "Hey! Speaking of the young master of the Shen family... he's no ordinary person! How old is he? Seven or eight? His knowledge, tsk tsk... photographic memory! Better than the old scholar in town! He lives with his mother in the mountains... those mountains are treacherous! Ordinary people can't climb them! And the Shen family's wife... hey, she's not even afraid of poisonous miasma, she's practically a goddess! She looks cold and aloof, but her skills are extraordinary! Otherwise, how could the Shen family be where they are today? That loom... tsk tsk..."
Once a drunkard starts talking, he can't stop.
Several idlers around also joined in the commotion, their words filled with awe for the Shen family and curiosity and mystification of Ling Zhan and his mother.
However, Mr. Wu, who was slowly turning the pages of his book in the corner, stopped.
He picked up the rough porcelain teacup, using the act of drinking tea to cover half his face, but his sharp eyes swept over the drunkard.
He then glanced, seemingly unintentionally, in the direction leading into the mountains.
The silent "old farmer" opposite him also put down his pipe. In the shadows beneath his straw hat, his gaze was fixed on the drunkard as if it were a tangible presence, as if assessing the informational value in his words. He even slightly adjusted his posture, his body appearing relaxed, but in reality, he was like a taut bow.
Old Sun, the owner of the tea stall, came over with his large teapot to refill the water and happened to see this scene.
These strange men reacted indifferently to the convoy from the Shen family manor, yet they paid so much attention to the drunkard's snippets about the "young master from the mountains" and the "Shen family lady." Especially when "Mr. Wu" seemed calm while drinking tea, his knuckles turned slightly white from gripping the rim of the bowl so tightly!
Old Sun had lived in the town for most of his life and had seen all sorts of people coming and going.
He instinctively felt that these people were not as simple as they seemed!
They sit under this old locust tree, drinking the cheapest tea, all day long, probably not waiting for any mountain produce.
It was news about the Shen family, especially about that mysterious mother and son!
A chill crept up Old Sun's back.
He didn't dare to look too much, keeping his head down as he refilled water for the other tables, but his heart felt like it was weighed down by a stone.
It seems things are about to get turbulent in Linshan Town.
He figured he needed to find an opportunity to give a reminder to the manager of Chenji Workshop, who often came to drink tea there.
Those eyes under the shade of the tree are unsettling.
Just as Old Sun was feeling uneasy, wondering how to inform the Shen family.
A familiar figure, leaning on a well-worn cane, slowly strolled into the tea stall.
It was Uncle Yang, the taciturn, one-armed old craftsman from Chenji Workshop. That's what everyone in the workshop called him.
He was wearing a faded coarse cloth jacket, with the empty left sleeve tied with a strip of cloth and hanging down at his side.
His face was deeply lined, his eyes were cloudy, and he looked like someone whose spine had been crushed by life.
He always likes to sit here after work.
For a penny, one could order a bowl of the cheapest coarse tea, sit facing an old locust tree or distant mountains, and sit for half an hour at a time.
Like a lifeless clay sculpture.
"Old Yang, the usual?" Old Sun greeted him, his tone carrying a hint of familiarity with the pitiful man.
Uncle Yang gave a muffled "hmm" in response.
He walked to a bench in a corner a little away from Mr. Wu's table, but still able to see the intersection, and sat down, his movements slow and stiff.
Old Sun brought him a bowl of murky, coarse tea.
Uncle Yang stretched out his only remaining right hand, his calloused and scarred fingers trembling as he picked up the bowl, brought it to his lips, blew on the hot liquid, and sipped it slowly. His gaze seemed unfocused, staring blankly at the sparse pedestrians on the street.
When Uncle Yang came in, the people at Mr. Wu's table all glanced at him, seemingly casually.
Seeing that it was that same frail, harmless, and crippled old craftsman again, he quickly lost interest.
Attention returned to the intersection and to assessing the drunkard's words.
Uncle Yang seemed completely oblivious to everything around him.
He sipped his tea slowly, his cloudy eyes occasionally glancing over Mr. Wu's table, over the Three Character Classic that they seemed to have casually spread out on the table, over the "old farmer's" large, calloused hand under the table, and over the "peddler's" darting eyes.
His eyes remained blank.
He sat for almost half an hour, finishing the tea in his bowl.
He shakily put down the bowl, and with his one arm, he groped around and pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket, inside which were a few dry, hard biscuits. He broke off a small piece and chewed it laboriously, his movements so slow it was agonizing.
Just as he was about to get up and leave, the peddler seemed to think the old craftsman was a good conversationalist. He came over, plopped down on the bench next to Uncle Yang, and put on his usual warm smile: "Brother, Chenji Workshop is done for the day? Are you tired? I heard your new machines are amazing, they can weave so much cloth a day? Who are the people fiddling with those precious things?"
Yang Bo seemed startled by the sudden sound, his body jerked back, and he almost slipped off the bench.
He frantically raised his head, his cloudy eyes filled with fear and confusion. He made incomprehensible gasps, as if he had phlegm stuck in his throat. He could only shake his head frantically, and his one arm was also swinging wildly, as if trying to drive away something terrible.
The peddler was taken aback by his dramatic reaction!
A flash of disdain and impatience crossed his eyes, and he muttered, "A deaf and mute piece of trash..."
He lost interest and got up to leave.
Mr. Wu also noticed the small commotion, but after a quick glance, he paid no further attention.
What could an old, useless man, exploited to the point of near death by the workshop, possibly know?
Uncle Yang seemed terrified, breathing heavily, and it took him a long time to recover.
He shakily gathered up the unfinished pancakes, leaned on his cane, his back hunched, and staggered away from the tea stall.
His figure disappeared into the afterglow of the setting sun, appearing particularly desolate.
No one noticed that, in the fleeting moment when Yang Bo's frantic swinging arm swept across the table, he seemed to discreetly and quickly scratch the tea-stained and greasy wooden surface with his fingernails. And after he left, a small, crumpled, oil-stained ball of toilet paper appeared to have been stuffed into the crack of the bench where he had sat.
The next morning, Liu Quan, the head manager of Chenji Workshop, was uneasy about the blacksmith shop incident and returned to Linshan Town early.
He needs to keep a close eye on the situation here.
He habitually walked to the old locust tree tea stall, wanting to have a bowl of tea to calm himself down and chat with Old Sun.
As soon as he sat down, Old Sun came over and poured him tea while lowering his voice to quickly recount the unusual behavior of Mr. Wu and his group yesterday, especially their excessive attention to news about the young master and his wife of the Shen family.
Liu Quan's expression grew increasingly grave as he listened.
While there's still no progress at the blacksmith shop, the tea stall has set its sights on the owner's wife and young master.
He subconsciously glanced at the tea stall, his gaze landing on the corner where Yang Bochang was sitting.
The bench is still there, but no one has arrived yet.
But Liu Quan had sharp eyes and immediately spotted the stained corner of paper peeking out from the gap in the bench!
A thought struck him!
He casually walked over and sat down, and while Old Sun wasn't looking, he quickly pried out the wad of toilet paper and held it in his palm.
The paper ball was wrinkled and dirty, stained with tea and oil, and had some crumbs stuck to it.
Liu Quanqiang calmly finished his tea, paid the bill, and quickly left.
He went to a secluded spot and unfolded the crumpled paper.
The paper was of poor quality, like it had been torn from some scrap paper.
There were no words on it, only a few crooked, uneven scratches, as if drawn with a fingernail or twig dipped in tea or oil, extremely hasty: "Do not drink the tea when it is cold, the shadow of the tree is too bright, leave the mountain quickly."
This incomplete and childlike "drawing" struck Liu Quan like a thunderbolt!
"Don't drink cold tea"? Is this a warning that the tea at the tea stall is problematic? Or is it an implication that the tea stall in this area is dangerous?
"Many eyes under the shadow of the tree"? Does "many eyes under the old locust tree" refer to those who are watching over them?
"Leave the mountain immediately!" That's the most crucial thing! It means getting the woman and young master out of the mountain as soon as possible!
Liu Quan clenched his fist tightly, gripping the crumpled paper tightly, his palms covered in cold sweat!
Who left this warning?
Could it be... Uncle Yang, who was terrified by the "peddler" yesterday?!
That seemingly deaf, mute, dull, and sluggish old craftsman?!
How could he possibly write?
He could even see the danger at the tea stall, and even knew that the lady and young master were in the mountains?!
It's not impossible, is it?!
That time, he knew how to repair the machines that only Ling Dong's family could!
The head of the family even specially assigned him easy tasks.
This discovery shocked and unsettled Liu Quan even more than the strangeness of the blacksmith shop!
He dared not delay any longer and ran back to Qingzhou Prefecture.
This time, we need to report not only the abnormality at the blacksmith shop.
We must immediately report this strange "note" and the astonishing speculation about Uncle Yang to our master, Shen Yan!
Beneath the calm surface of the waters of Linshan Town, the whirlpools are far deeper and more turbulent than they imagined!
Shen Yan finally returned to Linshan County with the steward.
Inside the study of the mansion, Shen Yan held the filthy piece of paper covered with scribbles, his expression shifting constantly.
Liu Quan stood to the side with his hands hanging down, not daring to utter a sound.
He recounted in detail how he discovered the note, his suspicions about Uncle Yang, and the unusual activity at the tea stall.
"Uncle Yang...that one-armed old man?!"
His brows furrowed into a knot.
He recalled Yang Bo's vague yet crucial assessment that the "fire was just a hair's breadth off" when the connecting rod broke in the workshop; he remembered the old man's violent, ghost-like reaction when the new loom was first started; he remembered the occasional, unsettling glint in the old man's cloudy eyes…
"Don't drink cold tea... the shadows of trees are too bright... leave the mountain immediately..."
Chen Yan repeatedly chewed on the nine strips of paper that resembled both words and pictures.
Although the warning was subtle, its target was extremely clear!
The words "Leave the mountain immediately" were especially pointed at Ling Zhan and Xiao Shitou! A chill ran down my spine.
"That old Yang..."
Shen Yan suddenly looked up, his eyes flashing with a sharp light, no longer showing any of the "fawning" demeanor he usually displayed in front of Ling Zhan.
Instead, they have developed a sharpness and decisiveness honed through the ups and downs of the business world.
This old man not only understands the firing techniques for ironware and can discern the secrets of looms through the art of divination, but he can also read! He can write!
You can even use this method to send messages!
He was definitely not just some ordinary homeless old craftsman! Who exactly was he?!
Shen Yan paced back and forth in the study for a moment, then suddenly stopped: "Liu Quan!"
"exist!"
"Go and do two things right away!"
Shen Yan spoke rapidly and clearly, “First, keep a close eye on Yang Bo’s every move at the workshop! But don’t alarm him! Let him do whatever he wants, as long as it doesn’t harm the workshop! Second, investigate! Investigate Yang Bo’s background! Which brokerage firm introduced him? What’s written on the list of refugees? I need the most detailed information!”
"Yes, sir!" Liu Quan accepted the order and hurried away.
Only Chen Yan remained in the study, and he whistled to summon the snowbirds.
Tie the paper intact to the bird's leg, and write a separate letter to tell Ling Zhan about the unusual situation in Linshan Town!
Not a single word could be missed!
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