Chapter 30: Borrowing the Divine Seat’s Disciple

This matter had nothing to do with Ye Chang; embroiled in his own troubles, he paid no heed at first to the quarrel between Lord Geng and the matron.

But Shi Shanzhi thought differently. After receiving Ye Chang’s hospitality and tasting the exquisite sweet and sour carp—so delicious he felt he’d never eaten its like—he now heard Lord Geng slander it as rubbish unworthy even of pigs and dogs!

“What nonsense is that, you sour pedant? Rubbish that neither pigs nor dogs would touch—what are you talking about?” The rough monk at the side erupted, his origins rooted in Mount Song’s Shaolin Temple. Back in Tang times, he had once saved Emperor Taizong, earning him a status beyond reproach; thus he feared none of the Linghu decree Lord Geng invoked.

“That rubbish refers to what’s in your bowls!” Lord Geng replied coldly. “Monk, this does not concern you—do not invite trouble upon yourself.”

Ye Chang, busy with his cooking, couldn’t help but chuckle. The monk had no clue what had transpired, but the elegant middle-aged woman realized the monk had unwittingly laid a trap for Lord Geng, who, despite his self-assured wit, had fallen for it without noticing.

“Good monk, do you dare insult me?” Lord Geng finally caught on and shouted in anger.

“The monk never insulted you—it was your own words, that this dish is rubbish even pigs and dogs won’t touch. Is the meal ready, Sir Ye?”

“Yes, the timing is just right,” Ye Chang said serenely, lifting the lid from the pot. Instantly, the fragrance of fish wafted out, and Lord Geng, who had pursued them here, tired and hungry, couldn’t help swallowing audibly.

Even Shi Shanzhi, who had eaten a fish earlier, felt his Adam’s apple twitch.

The two women showed no restraint, clearly accustomed to traveling, and began eating at once. After the first bite, the younger one cried out in delight, “Aunt, this is truly delicious! I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful!”

The matron nodded slightly. “Such flavor is rare, even in Chang’an and Luoyang.”

Ye Chang smiled. “Thank you for your praise.”

Seeing this, Lord Geng forgot his grudge against Shi Shanzhi and, with a hint of jealousy, said, “What’s the point of this? A gentleman stays far from the kitchen. Such culinary skill is the domain of petty men; even if one were as skilled as Yi Ya, it is merely cooking to curry favor, or worse, to form factions and bring calamity to the state!”

Now he was outright insulting Ye Chang, and even a clay figure would feel anger. It had nothing to do with Ye Chang, yet Lord Geng had first claimed his dishes were rubbish, then likened him to the infamous Yi Ya, who murdered his lord through cooking.

Ye Chang loathed such sanctimonious critics.

He stood, noticed half-burned firewood beneath the stove—some already charcoal—and took it out, waving it before Lord Geng, whose face was coldly smiling, hand resting on the sword at his waist.

This was the height of Tang dynasty, and a scholar’s sword was more than mere ornament—in some hands, it was a lethal weapon.

Ye Chang, however, flicked the fire out, then strode to the riverside cabin, took up a branch, and wrote:

“Those who come and go on the river love only the beauty of carp.
Yet, look—a lone boat braves the wind and waves.”

After finishing, he tossed the firewood aside and bowed to the local boatmen and fishermen. “Please return these utensils to their owners. My interest here is spent, and I wish to cross the river. Which brother might ferry me?”

Immediately, someone invited him aboard. Ye Chang led his horse onto the boat, Shi Shanzhi following in confusion. The boat was nearly full; the boatmen pushed off, and the craft left the shore.

The matron watched quietly as Ye Chang left his inscription.

Unlike the words Ye Chang once wrote on his fan, this past month he had diligently practiced, and using charcoal, wrote in a style akin to modern pen calligraphy. His writing was far more presentable now, and neither the matron nor Lord Geng had the discerning eye of Qian Qi or Yuan Gonglu, so they only found the script unique.

But the poem itself held even greater flavor.

A brief five-character verse, seemingly inspired by the Yellow River’s bank, yet imbued with a poignant compassion that moved the heart.

Especially for those struggling at society’s lowest rungs, forced by survival to brave risks—upon seeing and understanding this poem, they couldn’t help but resonate deeply.

“Yet, look—a lone boat braves the wind and waves,” the matron murmured.

“Those who come and go on the river love only the beauty of carp. Yet, look—a lone boat braves the wind and waves,” the chatty boatman who first welcomed Ye Chang repeated. This poem struck him far more intimately than the earlier line, “Are we mere weeds?”

Even Lord Geng, who had moments ago criticized Ye Chang mercilessly, could only look awkward—at least he knew he could never compose such a poem.

“Who would have thought to meet such a remarkable man at this ferry?” the matron said.

“Too bad we don’t know his name,” the younger woman beside her remarked.

This reminded the boatmen, and one ran several steps after the departing boat, shouting from the shore, “Poet, may I ask your name?”

Ye Chang had no intention of leaving his name—he wrote only to vex Lord Geng. Yet while he wished to remain anonymous, beside him sat a blunt monk; Shi Shanzhi stood and called loudly, “The poet is Ye Chang, Eleventh son of the Martial Ye family!”

He finished with a proud flourish, as if basking in reflected glory. Ye Chang stamped his foot. “Monk, why did you give out my name?”

“Why not? A true man never changes his name nor conceals his identity!”

“You’re a monk, and you changed your lay name to Shi Shanzhi!” Ye Chang snorted. “A true man... in this world, those who boast of being true men with their mouths die faster than anything!”

Though angry, he was powerless.

He could foresee the poem spreading far and wide in coming days, with boatmen embellishing today’s events for all passersby. Fenglin Ferry was a major crossing; perhaps before Ye Chang even reached Chang’an, his name would precede him.

As for Lord Geng’s grudge, that was unavoidable.

“Master Shanzhi, where are you headed?” After crossing the Yellow River, Ye Chang asked, reins in hand.

He wasn’t truly angry; the monk’s straightforwardness and rapid speech made him easy company.

“Where you go, I go,” Shanzhi spread his hands and grinned. “If you say no, I’ll go my own way.”

“You’re incorrigible.” Ye Chang could only smile. “I have but one horse—if you can keep up, follow me; if not, don’t blame me.”

Though he said so, Ye Chang often slowed to walk beside Shanzhi.

Eager to reach Chang’an, and after entering Tong Pass, finding themselves near the capital, Ye Chang stopped looking for lodgings. At dusk, he initially planned to sleep under the open sky, but as clouds thickened and rain threatened, they searched for shelter.

“Isn’t Guanzhong supposed to be a prosperous land? Why does it seem so barren to this humble monk?”

The more urgently they searched for shelter, the less they found—not even traces of habitation. The land was impoverished; not only crops, but even wild grass grew sparsely. In the distance, Mount Hua loomed as a pale blue shadow.

Ye Chang knew Guanzhong had once been fertile, but since Qin times, development never ceased. By Sui and Tang, rapid population growth had led to severe food shortages; even the Tang court had to move east to govern—more than Emperor Li Sanlang’s restless ambition, it was because Guanzhong could no longer support the vast central government.

It was from this era that the economic heart of China shifted to the southeast, the Yangtze and Huai regions.

“Do you, as a monk, love prosperity?”

“A monk is still human—why wouldn’t I? If there’s no prosperous place, and one hides deep in poverty, who will provide for the monk?”

“Quite candid... Master Shanzhi, look—there’s a temple over there, isn’t there?”

“Indeed, indeed—a temple!” Shanzhi, spotting the spire, rejoiced. “We’ve reached my domain; now it’s my turn to host you...”

“Don’t celebrate too soon,” Ye Chang cautioned.

After entering Tong Pass, they’d walked thirty-odd miles with hardly a soul in sight; the temple’s incense must be as sparse as at Shifang Temple. But they had no choice, as the sky began to spit rain.

They hurried into the temple, which, as Ye Chang suspected, had collapsed doors—it was an abandoned pagoda.

“There’s rice on the horse, and a pot; I’ll cook. Monk, before the rain worsens, fetch some firewood—and if you find any grass for the horse, don’t forget to cut it...”

Ye Chang gave instructions as he entered the main hall, but stopped short—the hall was already occupied.

Strictly speaking, it held several groups. Deep inside were five men, neither dressed nor looking like Tang people, gazing curiously at them. Then there were six merchants, anxiously guarding their packs.

The last group, holding the best spot, were eight men—two leaders, clearly an official and a clerk, with six soldiers.

“Apologies, gentlemen. The storm’s coming; we seek shelter for the night...”

“The west side hall will suffice,” the clerk interrupted, voice harsh. “There are enough people here already!”

Ye Chang didn’t argue, heading to the west hall. Unlike the mostly intact main hall, its roof had a gaping hole—fortunately not in the center, so not all would get wet. Ye Chang led his horse inside; soon Shanzhi arrived with firewood, seeing the Buddha statue toppled from its altar. He dropped the wood and pressed his palms together. “Amitabha. Whoever Bodhisattva or Arhat resides here, your disciple seeks shelter from the rain—may I borrow this place.”

He then moved the statue forcefully from the altar.

Ye Chang watched, involuntarily gasping—such strength!

Even hollow clay, the statue weighed several hundred pounds, yet Shanzhi moved it without breaking a sweat. Ye Chang’s eyes glinted with inspiration.

In this age of cold steel, having someone as strong as Shanzhi by his side meant greater safety, just as Qinshou kept Lin Xicheng close.

Whether to protect himself or avenge his brother, he needed such a powerful companion.

But to win Shanzhi over, cunning alone wouldn’t suffice; the monk, though rough, was genuine—play tricks, and both would end up enemies.

He would have to plan carefully.

As Ye Chang pondered, thunder rumbled outside, and the scattered raindrops became as large as soybeans, beating fiercely. He gathered himself, lit a fire, and took out his small clay pot.

This pot was for cooking when stranded outdoors; he used broken bricks from the hall to make a simple stove, caught rainwater, and began brewing soup. The weather was hot, and dry goods spoiled quickly, so Ye Chang carried raw rice and salted meat and fish. He was a gourmand; even with these humble ingredients, he added red dates and dried fruit, simmering slowly to make a unique “eight-treasure porridge.”

Just then, the sound of wheels and hooves came from outside. Ye Chang and Shanzhi craned their necks through the broken door and saw a familiar carriage approach.

It was the matron’s carriage—they hadn’t expected to meet her again here.

Like Ye Chang, the matron led her young companion to the main hall, but when she found others already inside, she came out, then the younger woman followed, her expression odd as she approached the west wing. Discovering Ye Chang and Shanzhi there, she exclaimed, “Aunt, it’s the poet Sir Ye!”

The matron came over and greeted Ye Chang, “I am Gongsun Matron, greetings, Sir Ye.”

“Gongsun Matron? The famed sword-dancer Gongsun Matron?” Ye Chang was startled by the name, forgetting himself.

No wonder—thanks to Du Fu, Gongsun Matron was renowned in later generations.

“So even my humble name is known to you, Sir Ye,” Gongsun Matron said with pleasure. “Meeting thrice in one day, fate indeed favors us. I’ll visit you again later, Sir Ye.”

She was over forty, a dancer by birth, and in this bold, open Tang dynasty, her manners were unconstrained; she spoke and laughed freely, even with unfamiliar men. She and her young companion went to the east wing, but their coachman stayed here, as it was improper for two women to share quarters with a man.

Those in the main hall, tired of constant disturbance, lifted the broken door and secured it from within.