Springtime in the old place
In April of the sixth year of the Tianqi reign, Li Yi married a woman surnamed Pei.
In May of the sixth year of the Tianqi reign, Xuanji returned to Jing County with Wen Tingyun.
Because they were traveling light and with minimal entourage, Xuanji, dressed in a neat blue robe, disguised himself as a handsome scholar. The group left Chang'an and headed straight for their hometown. Along the way, they passed through prefectures and counties, lodging at inns. Outsiders simply assumed it was a teacher leading his young disciples on a trip, and no one paid any attention, saving them a lot of trouble.
Wen Tingyun's original purpose for this trip was to compile local chronicles, and he had long harbored the intention of exploring and researching. Now that the journey was going smoothly, he was even more enthusiastic. Wherever he went, if he heard that there were ancient steles, old gardens, ruins, or relics of famous people nearby, he would definitely make a detour to visit them.
On this day, we arrived at an ancient ferry crossing from a previous dynasty, now abandoned, with only a few old stone-built docks leaning crookedly into the river, with withered grass stretching to the horizon on the banks and a few old trees with gnarled branches.
Wen Tingyun ordered the carriage to stop and walked to the riverbank with Xuanji. He gazed at the vast river, remained silent for a moment, and then suddenly recited: "A thousand sails pass by the sunken ship, ten thousand trees bloom before the withered tree."
After reciting the poem, he turned to Xuanji and asked, "Youwei, whose poem is this?"
Xuanji thought for a moment and then replied, "It is a line from Liu Mengde's (Liu Yuxi) poem, 'Replying to Bai Juyi's Poem Given at a Banquet on Our First Meeting in Yangzhou.'"
"Hmm." Wen Tingyun nodded, his gaze still fixed on the abandoned ancient ferry. "In the past, this place must have been a bustling hub of merchants and travelers. Now, all that remains is overgrown weeds and stone steps. Yet the river still flows eastward, never ceasing because of the rise and fall of a ferry crossing. It is evident that the changes of the world are but a fleeting moment in the grand scheme of things."
Xuanji stood quietly to the side, listening intently. He felt that every word his master spoke contained a profound sense of history and life experience, which was more genuine and moving than what he had read in books.
One day, they found a deserted temple in the mountains. Most of the temple buildings were dilapidated, but only one side hall remained. The murals inside the hall were mottled, but the lines were simple and the charm was still there.
Wen Tingyun's fingertips hovered, slowly moving along a winding yet vigorous ink line on the wall, his eyes gleaming with the burning light unique to scholars. "Youwei, look here," he said, his voice not loud, but each word clear, piercing the silence of the hall, "the outline of the apsaras's robes has the fullness and richness of Indian Buddhist images, yet with a turn of the brush, it also incorporates the sharpness of the 'Cao Yi Chu Shui' style from the previous dynasty. And look at these cloud patterns—" he turned to point to another blurred painting, "they clearly carry the ethereal quality of Chinese Taoist talismans, coexisting with the solemn image of the Buddha on the same wall, not only not appearing jarring, but rather creating a strange harmony."
He went deeper and deeper into the subject, discussing brushwork and pigments, and exploring the historical context of the time—a period of cultural exchange between North and South, and a mix of Han and non-Han peoples. Xuanji followed his train of thought intently, her eyes shining with rapt attention.
"What you learn from books is never enough." Wen Tingyun turned around and took out plain paper and charcoal pencil from his bag, handing them to Xuanji. "Such an ancient style can only be truly appreciated by copying it yourself. Here, try to outline the shape of that Ksitigarbha Bodhisattva and feel the spirit of the brushstrokes."
Xuanji took the pencil, her eyes shining brightly. She chose a relatively well-preserved section of the wall as instructed, concentrated intently, gripped the charcoal pencil tightly between her fingers, and carefully traced the flowing lines on the wall, lines that had stood for hundreds of years. At first, she was a little clumsy, but soon she captured the rhythm and vitality within those lines.
Wen Tingyun also spread out paper on the other side and began to copy a scene of flying apsaras. For a moment, the only sounds in the dilapidated hall were the scratching of charcoal pencils across the paper and the occasional whispers.
"Sir, the lines here appear smooth, but they actually contain pauses and breaks. I can never quite capture the strength at the turns." Xuanji frowned slightly and put down his brush to ask for guidance.
Wen Tingyun moved over, bent down to examine her copy closely, and compared it with the original on the wall. He naturally took the charcoal pencil from her hand. "You see," he said, "it's not about just smoothly tracing the strokes. You need to do it here—" He hovered his wrist in the air and lightly touched the corresponding spot on the wall. "Use your intention to guide your energy. When the energy reaches the tip of the pencil, pause slightly to reveal its strength. Try it."
Wen Tingyun's presence was so close, his voice deep and focused, completely absorbed in the analysis of art. Xuanji's heart trembled, and everything around him seemed to quietly fade away, leaving only that steady voice and reassuring presence so close at hand. As for the exquisite brushwork techniques, he hadn't quite caught most of them.
Wen Tingyun noticed her momentary daze, but assumed she was simply too focused and momentarily lost her train of thought. He repeated what he had just said, and then encouraged her by handing the charcoal pencil back to her. Xuanji, feeling guilty, snapped back to reality and tried again as instructed, successfully capturing some of the essence of the subject.
"That's right, that's exactly it!" Wen Tingyun's eyes showed a look of relief.
The master and apprentice were so engrossed in their work, one teaching with utmost care and the other learning with undivided enthusiasm, that they lost track of time. It wasn't until the old servant's anxious voice rang out from outside the dilapidated mountain gate, calling out several times, that they were jolted from their timeless artistic dialogue.
Wen Tingyun suddenly looked up and saw that dusk was falling outside the hall, and the last rays of the setting sun were rapidly receding. Xuanji also stood up, still clutching the copy in her hand, and only then did she feel the soreness and numbness in her legs and the emptiness in her stomach.
She was about to take a step when her numb legs suddenly became unresponsive. She stumbled, let out a soft cry of surprise, and involuntarily leaned forward, the manuscript in her hand flying out of her grasp.
Just as she thought she was about to fall awkwardly onto the dusty ground, a steady force firmly supported her waist. The hand was large with distinct knuckles. Even through her spring clothes, the warmth and strength of the hand were clearly felt, stabilizing her body.
Xuanji was still in shock, her breath catching in her throat. The moment she was helped up, she almost bumped into the person's arms, and instantly felt a very familiar and intimate scent of pine soot ink around her nose.
He frowned slightly, looked down at her, and asked in a barely perceptible urgency, "How could you be so careless? Is your leg numb?" His voice was so close, yet it sounded even lower and hoarser than usual.
Xuanji froze, her cheeks burning uncontrollably, her heart pounding like a drum, and she did not answer immediately.
Wen Tingyun realized the inappropriateness and awkwardness of their posture. He immediately released her, coughed lightly, and bent down to pick up the scattered manuscripts, thus concealing his momentary lapse in composure.
“Remember to stretch your muscles while copying,” he said, his head bowed, his voice returning to its usual calm, as if the brief touch and closeness just moments before were merely her illusion.
Xuanji nodded hurriedly, his voice barely audible: "...Yes, thank you, sir."
“Let’s go,” Wen Tingyun said, brushing off his robes. His tone returned to its usual gentleness, but with a hint of unfulfilled joy. “Today’s gains have been substantial. Let’s find a place to satisfy our hunger.”
Xuanji carefully put away his copy and quickly followed his master's pace.
Throughout the journey, this has always been the case. Xuanji has always been by my side, either recording with a pen or offering insights.
The further south they traveled, the more different the scenery became. Along the post road, vendors often sold loquats and bayberries, wrapped in banana leaves, looking incredibly fresh and delicious. Xuanji tasted a bayberry and squinted at its sourness. Wen Tingyun chuckled at this and handed her a sugar ingot, saying, "Southern fruits are often sour; they need sugar to balance them out." He then ordered a servant to buy coconut milk glutinous rice balls, soft, chewy, and sweet—a flavor she had never tasted before.
Sometimes, Xuanji would stare at Wen Tingyun in a daze, and when Wen Tingyun noticed, he would blush and lower his head.
Because she knew how precious this time was to her.
Wen Tingyun, too, felt a long-lost, pure joy of imparting knowledge and teaching amidst Xuanji's focused and bright eyes and his just-right responses.
After a journey of stops and starts, Wen Tingyun finally arrived in Jing County in June. As soon as he settled in, an old friend invited him to the county government office to participate in the initial discussions on compiling the county gazetteer. In the study, the old friend reunited, and after exchanging pleasantries, they engaged in rigorous research and debate.
Meanwhile, Xuanji found an opportunity, politely declined the old servant's offer to accompany her, and walked alone towards the direction of the music hall she remembered. As she approached home, a sense of trepidation crept in; the closer she got, the faster her heart pounded. The vermilion lanterns and the faintly discernible sounds of string and wind instruments stirred up deep-seated memories.
Because it was morning, the area in front of the brothel was rather deserted. After hesitating for a moment, she looked at a servant boy sweeping beside the door.
The servant stopped what he was doing, looked at the handsome "young master" with curiosity, and then said, "You're looking for Miss Liu? She's not here anymore! She redeemed herself last year and got married!"
Xuanji's heart tightened, and she hurriedly asked, "Married? Do you know what kind of family you married into?"
The servant's face showed a mixture of regret and envy: "He's a silk merchant from the south, surnamed Zhou. He's a bit older, but I've heard he's quite wealthy and treats people very well. He paid the ransom readily and was picked up in a grand sedan chair carried by eight men with great fanfare. It's much better than staying here!"
He paused, as if remembering something, and then said, "Oh right, when Miss Qianqian left, she also took Qingxing, the little maid who always followed her, with her, saying that she always needed someone she knew well to serve her."
Xuanji stood there, the servant's incessant chatter filling her ears, her heart a jumble of emotions. Qianqian had married a merchant? This seemed out of character for her former proud and arrogant self, but… the words "carried in a grand sedan chair," "glorious and respectable," made her genuinely happy for Qianqian. At least, it was a stable, worldly-approved marriage. And Qingxing… that greedy yet loyal little maid, had also found her place, no longer needing to fend for herself in the world of pleasure.
She imagined Liu Qianqian in a bright red wedding dress, with Qingxing as her maidservant following beside the sedan chair. A slight smile unconsciously appeared on her lips, but her eyes were moist.
She thanked the servant and turned to leave. She walked slowly down the familiar street, but her state of mind was quite different from when she left.
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