Chapter 37: Who Dares Wield an Axe Before the Master

In the upper floor of the tavern, a single mention of “the love of Longyang” silenced the crowd. Every gaze followed the direction of Jiao Sui’s finger, landing upon Ye Chang and Shanzhi. Even though Ye Chang was living life anew, he could hardly bear it—he nearly raised his sleeve to shield his face. Shanzhi, on the other hand, remained perfectly nonchalant, wearing the innocent look of a curious child; he truly had no idea what the love of Longyang meant.

This only fueled the crowd’s imagination. Among the two, the handsome and delicate youth must be the submissive one, while the ugly, clumsy, and foolish monk would naturally be the dominant. Yet some doubted—perhaps the youth was actually the assertive one, and the monk, dressed in his bright red robes, played the lady’s part? At this thought, a collective wince swept the tavern, accompanied by the faint sounds of retching.

“The love of Longyang?” Upon seeing it was Ye Chang, Qin Qinshou’s expression turned peculiar. Ye Chang’s timely arrival would have pleased him under other circumstances, but now, this verbose Jiao Sui seemed to know Ye Chang and the monk, and believed the two… shared the love of Longyang?

Qin Qinshou was momentarily at a loss as to whether he should even greet Ye Chang.

“These two are truly… indescribable, simply indescribable!” Jiao Sui continued his spirited monologue, recounting the conversation he’d overheard between the two on the road, especially that line, “If you do not leave, even if you drive me away, I will not go.” Mimicking the monk’s tone, he repeated it aloud. The tavern erupted into a mixture of laughter and disgust.

Ye Chang couldn’t help but give a wry smile. So the misunderstanding had arisen from this!

“This is all… just a misunderstanding…”

He attempted a feeble defense, but with the raucous jeers around him, he finally gave up. He could only force a smile and say to Qin Qinshou, “Brother Qin, I’ll wait for you at the Qin family shop.”

With that, he turned to leave. Qin Qinshou snapped out of his stupor—how could Ye Chang possibly be of such inclination? He leapt forward, grabbing Ye Chang’s arm. “Don’t go, don’t go!”

“Alas!” Ye Chang, once delighted to be here, found his mood completely ruined. He struggled to free himself. “The misunderstanding today is too deep. I must go…”

“You cannot leave!” Qin Qinshou called, “I was just looking for you—Master He and Master Zhang were asking after you!”

Ye Chang covered his face with his sleeve. “I truly cannot stay. After today’s humiliation, I have no face left to meet anyone.”

“Er… and this gentleman is?” At that moment, He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu also realized what was happening, stepping forward to ask.

“This is the Eleventh Son of the Ye family from Xiuwu County, Ye Chang, styled…” Qin Qinshou trailed off, suddenly realizing he did not know Ye Chang’s courtesy name.

But it hardly mattered. The moment they heard that this elegant youth was Ye Chang, Zhang Xu darted forward, grabbing him by the arm. “Write me a few words—quickly, let me see your writing!”

“Honestly, today I am in no mood…” Ye Chang thought this old man was truly obsessed. He sidestepped Zhang Xu. “I still have matters to attend to. Pardon me, gentlemen—I must take my leave!”

Zhang Xu, being elderly, was no match for Ye Chang’s strength. As Ye Chang broke free and made to leave, Zhang Xu had a sudden idea. He seized Jiao Sui. “Jiao Sui, apologize—quickly, apologize!”

Jiao Sui was dumbfounded. He hadn’t imagined that the youth he’d accused of such inclinations was none other than the author of “At Wind Crossing”—Ye Chang himself. He was mortified; all his praise had amounted to nothing, and now he had slandered the man face-to-face with such a charge, and before so many witnesses!

“Ahem… Why should I apologize? I spoke not a word of falsehood!” Even as Zhang Xu pulled at him, he tried to defend himself, though his gaze flickered with guilt.

“I’ll give you three months’ worth of wine—just apologize!” Zhang Xu knew his weakness immediately.

“Ah, three months of wine… Well, well, Master Ye, truly I was at fault. I had drunk too much that day; in my drunken stupor, I misheard your conversation.”

Faced with such circumstances, Jiao Sui was only too eager to take the offered way out. But Ye Chang waved his hands again and again. “Please, there’s no need for such an apology, truly… Brother Qin, I’ll be going now. Gentlemen—farewell!”

He hurried down the stairs. Shanzhi, momentarily stunned, muttered, “Didn’t you say we’d try the food here?” but followed nonetheless. He Zhizhang and Zhang Xu exchanged glances; Qin Qinshou wore an embarrassed expression, while Jiao Sui looked utterly aggrieved. “Don’t blame me—I apologized! Zhang the Mad, you’d better not renege on those three months of wine!”

“If I don’t get to see Ye the Eleventh’s calligraphy, don’t ever expect me to buy you wine again in this lifetime!” Zhang Xu retorted in exasperation, then turned to Qin Qinshou. “Master Qin, I wish to visit your shop—may I?”

As he spoke, He Zhizhang laughed. “Why not? That Ye the Eleventh is a character—let’s go to the shop and see him.”

Old as they were, once they made up their minds, they wasted no time. Soon, He Zhizhang, Zhang Xu, and another companion all headed downstairs, leaving Jiao Sui and Qin Qinshou behind. Qin Qinshou had to settle the bill, while Jiao Sui took the opportunity to pour all the unfinished wine into his great flask. As he did so, the man who’d followed Zhang Xu ran back upstairs, gathered up the wooden boards, and declared, “These are mine now.”

Ye Chang and Shanzhi made their way quickly to the Qin family shop. Shanzhi asked, “Why leave? Even if there’s a misunderstanding, can’t you clear it up in person?”

“Monk, you don’t understand the ways of the world. Just recite your sutras, eat your meat, and, if needed, help me teach someone a lesson,” Ye Chang muttered.

He certainly had his reasons. If he hadn’t happened upon Qin Qinshou and Jiao Sui praising him, he could have greeted the two elders formally. But now, since Qin Qinshou and Jiao Sui had elevated his reputation, he would be remiss not to make the most of this opportunity.

Wuze Slope was a small place, as was Xiuwu County, but his experiences there had taught Ye Chang a vital lesson: in this era, without strength, it was difficult to protect one’s interests, and even those he cared about could be implicated. Thus, he had to build his strength as much as possible, and connections and reputation were both part of that strength.

With suitable influence, he could then seek ways to make money, and money would in turn become strength.

Arriving at the Qin family shop, he asked one of the assistants to boil some water, then headed into the backyard. With Qin Qinshou’s instructions, none of the staff stopped them, so he and the monk sat beneath an old elm tree in the yard. By now, the day was turning to noon, the heat oppressive, but beneath the shade there was a hint of breeze to alleviate the discomfort.

They had barely sat when the assistant lit the fire and placed a clay pot to boil water. The two elders, accompanied by their followers, soon entered. Jiao Sui came as well, with Qin Qinshou trailing behind, wearing a rueful smile.

“Ye the Eleventh, today’s trouble was truly my fault. I apologize,” Jiao Sui said sincerely, having been thoroughly scolded by Zhang Xu and, upon reflection, realizing Ye Chang was not at all the sort prone to such inclinations.

“Ah, it was mere coincidence—not your fault,” Ye Chang sighed. “It’s just that I’m new to Chang’an, and now my reputation… is ruined.”

“No matter, we shall clear your name—just write me a few more characters,” Zhang Xu said promptly.

“Indeed, you may rest assured,” added He Zhizhang.

Sensing the moment was right to inquire after their identities, Ye Chang clasped his hands in a salute. “Esteemed gentlemen, I have yet to ask your illustrious names.”

Qin Qinshou seized the opportunity. “This is Master He, court guest to the Crown Prince, Silver-Green Grandee, and Director of the Imperial Library—He Zhizhang, styled Jizhen.”

Ye Chang’s jaw nearly dropped. In later generations, He Zhizhang would be even more famous than Qian Qi, one of the Ten Talents of the Great Calendar. Any scholar would know his “Ode to the Willow” and “Returning Home.” Ye Chang was aware He Zhizhang was already past eighty, and that his days were few, but he never imagined he would meet him so soon after arriving in Chang’an!

Qin Qinshou gave him little time to recover from his shock before continuing, “This is Zhang Xu, Prefect of the Jinwu Guards, styled Bogao.”

Ye Chang’s mouth fell open even wider—what had started as enough to fit an egg could now accommodate a fist. Zhang Xu’s place in Chinese history rivaled or surpassed He Zhizhang’s. Not only was he a renowned poet, author of “A Journey in the Mountains,” but more importantly, he was a master calligrapher. The Sage of Cursive Script, Zhang Xu, the Poet-Immortal Li Bai, and the sword-dancing General Pei Min were known as the Three Wonders. Meeting He Zhizhang was already a joyous surprise; meeting Zhang Xu as well was a double blessing.

His mind raced—he recalled hearing that Li Bai, too, was in Chang’an, and glanced at the man beside Zhang Xu. Before he could ask, Qin Qinshou introduced him, “This is Yan Zhenqing, styled Qingchen, who recently passed the imperial examination for literary distinction and now studies calligraphy under Master Zhang.”

Another iconic figure in the history of Chinese culture! But by now, Ye Chang was feeling numb—this was, after all, an era of dazzling brilliance, and Chang’an was the empire’s political and cultural heart. Meeting such luminaries here was only to be expected.

“It’s an honor, a true honor to meet you all…”

Although he had mentally prepared himself for such encounters, at this moment, Ye Chang could only express his respect in the simplest possible way.

“And this gentleman…” Qin Qinshou hesitated as he came to the man who had mistaken Ye Chang for a devotee of Longyang. Though he had been in Chang’an longer than Ye Chang, he did not recognize him.

“My surname is Jiao, single name Sui—a commoner and wine fanatic, nothing more,” Jiao Sui introduced himself before anyone else could.

“Ah…”

Though not as famous as the previous three, he was not completely unknown. Ye Chang recalled that the last of the “Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup” in Du Fu’s famous poem was precisely him. For a moment, Ye Chang considered copying out “The Song of the Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup,” but since Du Fu had likely already been born and perhaps was in Chang’an, he thought better of it. To plagiarize was one thing; to be caught by the original would be mortifying.

“Write me a few words, just a few—young friend, Eleventh Son, I beg you!” Zhang Xu pleaded, scratching his head in agitation.

Ye Chang pursed his lips. “How could I dare to brandish my axe before Lu Ban’s gate?”

“Your calligraphy is ordinary enough, but the form and style are utterly novel and ingenious. I heard from Master Qin that you once met an immortal—could it be your script is of celestial origin?”

“This…” Ye Chang would never admit to meeting an immortal; before he left, Ye Dan had repeatedly warned him that rumors of such encounters could bring disaster. Yet, he could not outright deny it either, for otherwise much of his skill would be hard to explain. So he improvised: “Once in the mountains I dreamt a dream, and in the dream glimpsed poems and calligraphy. I only captured their form, not their true essence.”

“That is already marvelous—please, write a few more for me to see.”

Qin Qinshou gestured for the assistant to bring paper and brush. Ye Chang took up the brush, and, glancing at Yan Zhenqing beside him, was suddenly struck by mischief. In Yan’s style, he wrote four characters: “Brandishing an axe at Lu Ban’s gate.”

“Ah? Qingchen, look—these characters resemble your own!” Zhang Xu exclaimed.

At this time, Yan Zhenqing was still apprenticed to Zhang Xu and had not fully developed his own style. Viewing these four characters, he too was baffled and intrigued. Though Ye Chang’s writing was still somewhat clumsy and far from that of a true calligrapher, the structure of these characters gave Yan tremendous inspiration.

Having finished, Ye Chang set down the brush and bowed. “I am but slow-witted, and my dream is already fading. Please, gentlemen, spare me further requests.”

Seeing his resolve, Zhang Xu and Yan Zhenqing turned their attention to studying the four characters, while He Zhizhang, a bit disappointed, asked, “Were those two poems also composed in a dream?”

Ye Chang smiled. “Indeed.”

“Do you have any more poems?”

Ye Chang did not rush to answer. By now, the water in the yard was boiling. He asked Qin Qinshou to fetch clean cups, then took some tea leaves from his bag and distributed them. At once, a delicate fragrance wafted through the air. He Zhizhang sniffed and asked, “Is this tea cake?”

At this time, tea was typically brewed by boiling, a complex process with many rituals, often adding ginger, scallion, salt, and other ingredients, making the flavor quite mixed. Ye Chang had tried it twice and, though he admitted it had its own charm, he could never grow accustomed. Moreover, the tea cakes of this era were usually steamed before being pressed, then ground to powder before drinking—far inferior to pan-fired tea, which preserved its flavor. Powdered tea also lost the pleasure of watching leaves unfurl and dance in the hot water.

“No, not tea cake. I picked this myself at Mount Fufu’s Temple of the Medicine King and prepared it personally. It has a unique flavor,” Ye Chang explained as he brewed the tea. Upon seeing the leaves expand in the boiling water and the aroma fill the air, He Zhizhang exclaimed, “How delightful—truly a fine tea!”

If this had been a formal tea gathering, there would have been a series of elaborate rituals for serving tea. But Ye Chang knew nothing of the tea ceremony; he simply poured the tea and invited everyone to drink. Yet He Zhizhang found this single, sincere word—“please”—more in accord with the Daoist ideals of “non-action” and “naturalness.”