“Have we known each other in dreams for so long—can we meet in the mortal world?”
Xie Yilu asked this, writing it on plain Xinxin paper with a Huzhou brush and a small silkworm-shaped inkstone. Yet for three whole days, he received no reply. That person was like the last glimmer of starlight atop East Mountain—flashing once, then suddenly disappearing.
What kind of person was he? Xie Yilu could not help wondering. A scholar? A Confucian merchant? Or… an official, just like himself? There was an indescribable curiosity in his heart, thrilling like wondering what the bride beneath the red veil would look like on one’s wedding night. But if that were the case, why was that person unwilling to meet him?
Could it be… Xie Yilu’s face suddenly flushed red. Was “he” actually a woman? A young lady from a respectable family, a beautiful woman? He was somewhat afraid—afraid that she might be an unmarried young lady, and that he would incur the crime of carrying on an illicit affair. But judging by the handwriting, it did not seem so. How could a sheltered young woman have such steel-and-iron handwriting? Could “she” be… a prostitute?
Xie Yilu was suddenly alarmed. Apart from social obligations, he never privately associated with prostitutes. He considered himself a thoroughly upright man; how could he get his feet wet over something like a “female confidante”? Speaking of prostitutes, he thought of the Pearl Market north of Qiandao Bridge, of that swaying sedan chair, and of Ruan Dian. That’s right, eunuchs were regular customers of prostitutes. There was no prostitute who was innocent.
Xie Yilu fiercely pinched himself. He had actually compared that person to a eunuch. What an insult to the other party! It was like dropping several drops of foul ink into a bowl of clear water, dirtying it.
“Chunchu… Chunchu!” Qu Feng called from beside him.
Xie Yilu suddenly came to his senses from his ridiculous imaginings. The incense stick in his hand was almost burned down to its root. He tossed it aside and flicked his sleeve.
The two of them were standing beside the mountain road leading up to Zhebo Chan Temple. The road was bustling with worshipers coming to pray. Today was the fifteenth, and there were especially many people coming to offer incense.
“What are you thinking about?” Qu Feng looked at him with a flirtatious expression. “You’ve only been here a short while, and you’ve already found yourself a sweetheart?”
Xie Yilu inexplicably felt guilty. “What are you talking about…”
He shook the hem of his official robe and leaned closer to him.
“That… Are there any people in Nanjing particularly famous for their calligraphy?”
“There are. Cha Yongtu of the Ministry of Rites and Liang Ke of Youshan Academy can both be called masters,” Qu Feng pointed up the mountain, indicating that they should continue walking. “Why are you suddenly asking about this?”
Xie Yilu followed him uphill. “Ah… Just asking.”
“Oh, right. I heard there is one more,” Qu Feng snapped open his folding fan, looking as though he had some unusual gossip to share. “It is…”
Suddenly, the worshipers ahead began shouting. Quite a few people had blocked the road, waving their fists and complaining angrily.
They walked over to see what was happening. The farther they went, the more crowded it became. When they reached the small mountain gate, they discovered that the monks had blocked the road. No one was allowed to pass within five hundred paces downhill from the Mahavira Hall.
A major figure had arrived.
Qu Feng and Xie Yilu exchanged a glance and tactfully began walking back down. After only a few steps, a group of men came rushing up from below. The leader wore a flying-fish uniform and had a stern face.
It was Tu Yue.
Tu Yue was no ordinary person. With just one glance through the sea of people, he spotted Xie Yilu, but pretended not to see him. He had two fanzi open a path for him while he raised his brows and leisurely strolled uphill.
Seeing that they were Embroidered Uniform Guards, the monk in charge respectfully approached and leaned over to explain. The leading fanzi pushed him aside and loudly rebuked him.
“Thousand Household Tu Yue of the Embroidered Uniform Guard has come on behalf of the Nanjing Defender to offer incense money. Clear the way!”
The bustling mountain road suddenly fell silent.
Only then could they hear the deep chanting from the Mahavira Hall. They were conducting a Nirvana Dharma Assembly:
The Buddha told Ananda: In ancient times, on the southern side of Snow Mountain, there lived the Golden Radiance Peacock King. Every morning, he would recite the Peacock Wisdom King Dharani…
It was the Peacock Sutra.
The common people held reverence in their hearts and solemnly quieted down. Tu Yue’s men, however, paid no attention. They repeatedly jabbed the stone ground with the tips of their saber scabbards.
“I told you to move. Can’t you hear me?”
The monk in charge did not move or answer.
Tu Yue grew impatient. He brushed the dust from his horse-faced skirt with the nanmu Buddhist beads wrapped around his wrist and lazily asked, as though making casual conversation:
“Who is inside?”
The monk pressed his palms together.
“Lay devotee Liao of the Weaving Bureau.”
Tu Yue’s hand stopped.
After a moment of silence, he spoke in the tone of someone chatting idly.
“We’re both fourth-rank officials. The Weaving Bureau can come, but the Nanjing Defender cannot? What exactly does Zhebo Chan Temple mean by that?”
He was trying to put a charge on them.
Xie Yilu could not help swallowing.
For two powerful eunuchs of the rank of Nanjing Defender and Weaving Commissioner to openly confront one another was rare even in Beijing, let alone Nanjing.
The monk had no answer.
Tu Yue was about to press the issue when one of the doors of the Mahavira Hall opened. Two people walked out and closed the door behind them.
Even from that distance, Xie Yilu immediately recognized them.
Standing on the left and right were A-Liu and Zhang Cai. Both wore white yisa robes, lion-and-parrot rank patches, and ivory identification plaques at their waists.
Zhang Cai stepped forward and stood at the top of the stone stairs. The wound on his head had not yet healed. A branch of begonia flowers was tucked beside his temple, concealing the freshly scabbed wound.
“What people are making such a commotion?”
His voice was loud. At the same time, he briskly kicked up the hem of his yisa and gathered it into the crook of his arm, striking an imposing pose.
Tu Yue raised his neck and tilted his head arrogantly. He and his men were so conspicuous that Zhang Cai could not possibly have failed to see them.
“What people are making such a commotion?” Zhang Cai dragged out the words and asked again.
Tu Yue regarded him as merely a child and smiled without warmth.
Zhang Cai lowered his gaze and glared at him darkly. A-Liu rolled his eyes and simply put his hand on his saber, preparing to go down. Zhang Cai reached back and pressed a hand against his chest, then suddenly shouted at Tu Yue:
“I asked what people are making such a commotion!”
Tu Yue’s eyes hardened. He glared back viciously.
“Embroidered Uniform Guard. Tu Yue!”
Zhang Cai laughed like a genuine child.
“So it’s Lord Tu.”
He casually cupped his hands.
“My apologies for the disturbance.”
Taking advantage of the words, Tu Yue tried to walk uphill, but the monk in charge blocked him again.
Tu Yue’s anger immediately flared.
“What is your Weaving Bureau trying to do?”
Zhang Cai was still smiling.
“Nothing.”
He deliberately sauntered around on the stone steps.
“Our Director is meditating in the hall. Please wait a while, Lord Tu.”
“Absurd!”
Tu Yue flung his hand aside.
His men immediately surged forward from behind him and charged uphill. The monks could not stop them.
Then—
BOOM!
A mass of saber-wielding men rushed out from the Manjushri Hall and Samantabhadra Hall on either side of the Mahavira Hall.
They were all eunuchs, all dressed in white.
They poured down the stone steps like a flowing stream, all the way until they formed a wall directly before the Embroidered Uniform Guard fanzi.
They were Liao Jixiang’s Pure Army!
It had long been rumored that he had a small unit of several dozen eunuchs brought from Gansu. Every one of them had killed Tatars and seen blood. They were people who had fought their way back from the gates of hell.
Tu Yue and his men stopped moving.
Cautiously—even fearfully—they retreated.
A deep dong sounded from the Mahavira Hall.
The people below jumped and all looked upward.
It was Ruan Dian, who had slapped open the door and come out.
Seeing the scene, he burst into laughter.
“Everyone’s mobilized. I thought something serious had happened.”
He giggled wildly.
“So it’s Thousand Household Tu!”
He squatted down right where he stood and lazily rocked himself on the highest stone step.
“Zhang Cai, they’ve only brought that few people. Playing like this against them… Aren’t you embarrassed?”
His words were directed at Zhang Cai, but it was Tu Yue who was humiliated.
There was nothing more insulting than this.
His face turned green as he backed away. Just as he retreated into the crowd, someone behind him loudly shouted:
“People ahead, move!”
He turned around.
A procession of white-robed eunuchs was coming uphill, carrying gold-inlaid bronze trays. Each tray held stacks of ten-tael ingots of silver, piled into offering towers.
Leading them was Jin Tang.
As he brushed past Tu Yue, he tilted his head. His phoenix eyes were bright and watery, with a trace of mockery within them.
“Lord Tu.”
He glanced at Tu Yue’s empty hands.
“You came to make an offering too?”
Tu Yue’s face instantly flushed red.
He had brought nothing except five hundred-tael silver notes. Zheng Xian’s annual incense money was something he personally offered, and five hundred taels already represented his utmost sincerity.
“Weina,” Jin Tang respectfully addressed the monk in charge, “please take Lord Tu to the meditation hall I usually use. Find a few well-spoken boys to keep him company and have them serve him a cup of hot tea.”
His words sounded gracious, but there was nothing gracious in their meaning.
Tu Yue’s face shifted between green and white. Gritting his teeth, he flung his sleeve and left.
Just then, someone in the crowd suddenly shouted:
“What they’re carrying on those trays isn’t silver! It’s the people’s dwarf pear trees!”
Tu Yue abruptly stopped.
Everyone present was as stunned as he was.
They all turned to stare at a young man.
He was tall, with a refined face.
Xie Yilu, who had come from Beijing.
Xie Yilu’s expression was calm.
Beside him, Qu Feng was terrified. He did not even dare reach out and tug at Xie Yilu.
At the top of the stone stairs, Ruan Dian stood with his mouth wide open. Slowly, he rose, clearly about to unleash a few vicious words.
But from inside the hall came a delicate voice so faint it was almost ethereal.
Coldly, it said:
“Open the door.”
The chanting stopped.
One vermilion door of the Mahavira Hall opened.
Sunlight poured into the dim hall, illuminating a small square patch before the Buddha.
There, someone knelt prostrate.
He wore a narrow-sleeved white robe and turned his head toward the entrance.
Above his head, golden lamps and incense flames glittered, set against the unmoving, unshattering compassionate countenance of Shakyamuni Buddha.
Xie Yilu fell speechless in an instant.
This person possessed an air that had nothing to do with the imposing Pure Army on the stone steps, and nothing to do with the towering piles of silver on the bronze trays.
It was not the domineering aura of high rank and great authority.
It was composure that had settled into his very bones.
Is this Liao Jixiang?
Xie Yilu was astonished.
He was completely different from Zheng Xian.
Zheng Xian’s entire body exuded the extravagant, dazzling worldly splendor of human life.
This man, however, was cold and detached.
If he was not a ghost, then he must be an immortal.
A large man bent down to support Liao Jixiang’s hand.
Xie Yilu recognized him.
It was Yishha.
He carefully helped the man surnamed Liao up from the meditation cushion.
This powerful eunuch really was thin. His upright, refined bearing should have made him seem like a bamboo stalk or a spear.
But the moment he took a step, the impression was shattered.
He walked with one foot deep and one foot shallow.
He was lame.
“Director!”
Every white-robed eunuch dropped to his knees.
They knelt low and in perfect unison.
Such disciplined movements were not something a Weaving Bureau eunuch should possess. They were even more impressive than the Nanjing garrison.
Liao Jixiang’s left leg was lame, as though his knee were damaged and unable to bear weight.
Yishha supported him tightly, as though protecting a delicate young lady.
Xie Yilu was astonished by his build.
That slender waist seemed as though one hand could encircle it, and one hand could break it.
He wore a qilin rank patch. His narrow face was as pale as snow, and his features were exceedingly delicate and faint.
Before the man even reached him, Xie Yilu caught the faintest trace of sandalwood carried on the spring breeze, mixed with the scent of grass.
If one carefully distinguished it, there was also the sweet fragrance of milk.
Yishha hurriedly helped him down.
Because he was standing on the steps, Liao Jixiang looked down from above.
His eyes were delicate and limpid, with thin double eyelids. His lips were the kind commonly seen on statues of Bodhisattvas.
He could not exactly be called beautiful, but they were undeniably full and lush.
He calmly studied Xie Yilu and asked:
“What is your name?”
Xie Yilu had never been this close to a powerful noble before, and he could not help staring.
“I asked what your name is,” Yishha urged.
Xie Yilu’s cheeks flushed. Stammering, he gave his name.
Liao Jixiang’s pale face showed no expression.
Jin Tang, Ruan Dian, Zhang Cai, and A-Liu all stared at Xie Yilu without blinking, waiting for his command.
“Ruan Dian.”
In the end, Liao Jixiang tilted his head and singled out the Annamese.
“Remember it?”
How should Ruan Dian’s expression be described?
Like a vicious dog accustomed to fighting outside suddenly exposing its belly before its master and wagging its tail joyfully.
“I remember!”
Liao Jixiang coughed and tightened his grip on Yishha’s hand.
A-Liu saw it at once and immediately went down to clear a path for him.
The common people scattered as though avoiding a plague.
Yishha squatted down on the stone steps and carried Liao Jixiang on his back as gently as though he were carrying a feather.
The people of the Weaving Bureau withdrew in groups.
As the worshipers passed through the small mountain gate, they chattered among themselves.
Amid the torrent of curses, Xie Yilu heard Qu Feng say:
“Don’t leave the house for the next couple of days.”
“It won’t come to that, will it?”
He forced a smile, deliberately trying to appear carefree.
“At worst, they’ll demote me to Liaodong again.”
Qu Feng grabbed him.
His beautiful peach-blossom eyes glared angrily.
“He called Ruan Dian!”
Xie Yilu did not understand.
Qu Feng fell silent at first.
Then he sighed.
“If he had called Jin Tang, you’d still have your life…”
Xie Yilu understood.
If he still did not understand after that, he would be a fool.
He remained silent for a while before saying:
“Come, then. I’ll wait.”
Qu Feng did not respond.
After leaving Zhebo Chan Temple and parting ways with Qu Feng, Xie Yilu hurried to Lingfu Temple.
He probed inside the stone lantern again and again, but still found nothing.
That person did not want to meet him.
He stood there empty-handed, then dejectedly sat down amid the newly grown patch of grass.
Lonely, and perhaps carrying just a trace of resentment, he lowered his head heavily against his chest.
He returned home with mud covering his backside, plunged straight into his study, spread out paper, and ground his ink.
He rolled up his sleeves and several times tried to put brush to paper, only to stop himself.
Suddenly, a tear fell onto the paper.
He fiercely wiped it away and hurriedly wrote:
Life and death, honor and disgrace, all within a day;
My soul is bound to you, my dreams haunted by you—this alone is my one thought.