Chapter Nine: The Sect Leader

As soon as the main figure exited, Sun Taichong laughed and remarked that the spring day was perfect for brewing tea and savoring its flavor. Most of those present naturally agreed and rose to follow him to the tea room. However, Du Shiyi, who had already been served a cup by the maid earlier, forced himself to take a sip. First, the pungent taste of scallion and ginger in the tea nearly knocked him flat, then the indescribable sensation—neither salty nor spicy—left his throat parched and his stomach uneasy. Therefore, he chose not to join in the lively commotion he could hardly endure. Seeing that Liu Ximing, who had just targeted him, was engrossed in conversation with Song Fuzhen, the master of Songyang Temple, Du Shiyi quietly stood and slipped out of the room.

Once outside, he realized he had unconsciously carried with him the delicate white porcelain tea cup. Standing in the bright daylight, he examined it in the sun: pure as snow, thin as a cloud, without blemish or ornament, its form simple and ancient. Thinking of the clay bowls and cups used in his own thatched cottage, he recalled from memory that his family in Fanchuan once owned a set of porcelain as well. Whether it remained at home or had been sold by Du Thirteen for medical expenses, he could not say. He narrowed his eyes with a sigh, and upon reentering, saw Liu Ximing still conversing with Song Fuzhen. He beckoned a maid over.

“I was playing with this, and absentmindedly took it outside. Please, take it back.”

The maid nervously accepted the cup with both hands. Watching Du Shiyi depart, she suddenly heard the master of the temple summon her from behind and hurriedly turned to report. After explaining Du Shiyi’s return and departure, the master waved her off, and she retreated quietly.

No sooner had the maid left than Liu Ximing sneered, “Although the Du clan is a great family in Guanzhong, in recent years they have produced far fewer distinguished figures than before. Even the Sage lamented that the Marquis of Lai had no heirs. In comparison, though the Prince Consort’s branch of Fanchuan Wei is nearly extinct, at least some talented people remain. I attended several Du clan literary gatherings in Fanchuan; Du Nineteen was lauded as unparalleled, as if all the stars revolved around him, yet he was merely ordinary! Pity that his illness cost him dearly—his elders tried so hard to create opportunities, hoping the Emperor would summon the prodigy and revive their family’s name, but all their efforts were for naught! He finds a white porcelain cup remarkable, which shows how unworthy he truly is!”

“That’s enough!” Song Fuzhen interrupted, then said coolly, “The Du clan’s literary gatherings are their own, and if they have talent, praise is only natural. You insisted on joining the crowd, and now you blame others for their admiration? You challenged him publicly, only to be outmaneuvered—do you really think you looked glorious?”

“Uncle, I thought Du Nineteen had lost his talent and was ashamed to admit it, but I never expected him…”

“So you had to prod his wound? And then, to compensate, you used Master Sima as a pretext? Your cleverness has betrayed you! Ziguan, the Liu clan is also a renowned family in Guanzhong, wealthier by far than Du Nineteen’s increasingly impoverished branch. If you wish to compete, do so openly; today’s actions only invite ridicule. I specially calculated Master Sima’s arrival at Songshan and invited you—not to disgrace yourself. Furthermore, Du Nineteen’s poem clearly suits Master Sima’s taste. If you don’t restrain your temperament, gaining rank in Jingzhao Prefecture next year will be as hard as climbing to the heavens!”

Faced with this harsh rebuke, Liu Ximing lowered his head and muttered assent, though a trace of disdain flickered across his face. To him, Du Shiyi’s four lines merely borrowed the theme of compassion for farmers, with unremarkable diction and structure designed only to impress the crowd, and the authorship was still questionable. If he truly had talent, why would he avoid Sun Taichong’s invitation to the tea room?

Unaware that the conversation in the Flying Star Pavilion involved uncle and nephew, Du Shiyi, having followed the young Taoist inside earlier, found himself quite interested in Songyang Temple’s architecture and wandered about. The weather was pleasant, and many pilgrims filled the temple, but the Flying Star Pavilion, residence of the temple’s Taoists, barred outsiders. Wandering out, he reached the incense-filled Hall of Three Pure Ones; outside, he watched devotees offer incense and prayers. After a moment’s hesitation, he crossed the threshold and entered.

Though Du Thirteen kept her lips sealed, he had learned of their current difficulties from Bamboo Shadow. Even though Tian Mo was diligent, and vegetables and firewood no longer needed to be bought at market, the daily essentials—rice, oil, soy, vinegar, and tea—were only slightly easier, with tea itself something he could no longer enjoy. Moreover, when Du Thirteen took him from Jingzhao Prefecture, it had been in dire straits; if he returned now, even healed, how could he face his reputation, which had plummeted? Once famed as a prodigy, now stripped of glory, with many—like Liu Ximing—delighting in his misfortune or harboring malice. Though he spoke of the four social classes, he could not truly become a peasant. To live well with Du Thirteen in this era, certain things were indispensable.

He did not kneel as the other devotees did but stood, raising his hands in silent prayer for a long while before bowing deeply. Straightening, he heard a familiar voice behind him.

“So here you are, Young Master Du—I’ve searched everywhere for you.”

He turned to see Sima Heiyun, and greeted him with a smile. After exiting the Hall of Three Pure Ones together and avoiding the crowd, they walked down a secluded path where Sima Heiyun explained, “Today’s sudden influx of guests caught my master unprepared. He had intended to ask you to copy some books, but with so many people, it was not convenient. My master is now in the Quietude Residence. It’s fortunate you didn’t join the tea room, or I’d have had to wait for another day to visit you.”

“Then please, Brother Sima, lead the way!”

The Quietude Residence was one of several elegant, secluded lodges within Songyang Temple. Du Shiyi followed Sima Heiyun inside, encountering only a few attendants along the way. Entering, he saw the master, Sima, seated cross-legged in meditation, seemingly oblivious to the world, with only a young Taoist standing by. Sima Heiyun signaled to him and quietly withdrew. Du Shiyi took a seat, expecting to be tested for patience, but soon the master opened his eyes.

“Tell me, Young Master Du, whose calligraphy did you practice as a child?”

“I began with Ouyang Gong, then moved to Wang Right Army’s style,” Du Shiyi replied without hesitation, as this had been true in both lives.

“So you are skilled in the Eight-Fen script?” Sima nodded as Du Shiyi confirmed, then said, “Would you write a few characters for me?”

The young Taoist immediately brought the scholar’s tools. Though Du Shiyi had recently retrained his writing posture, when he took up the brush and ink, he drew a deep breath before carefully inscribing the characters. Once two lines were finished and the ink dried, he handed the scroll to the Taoist. Sima took it, examined it closely, and, satisfied with the brushwork, read aloud: “Hoeing grain beneath the midday sun, sweat falls into the soil below. Who knows the meal on the plate, each grain comes from toil…” Still the very poem from earlier—good handwriting, better poetry! You are young, yet understand compassion for farmers; not easy. My late teacher often said, the fate of the world lies with agriculture.”

Upon hearing mention of the late teacher, Du Shiyi finally asked directly, “Master Sima, I am young and ignorant; though Brother Sima has twice helped me at your instruction, he has never revealed your identity. Today I came to copy books, but found myself amidst such a grand gathering. If I do not learn your background, I fear I may embarrass myself before others.”

“Oh, you still do not know who I am?” Sima laughed heartily, “Good! I am neither a government official devoted to agriculture and irrigation, nor a poet with fame throughout the land—just a Taoist cultivating himself, not meant to be widely known with guests flocking from everywhere! Young Master Du, you’ve spoken the plainest truth.”

Du Shiyi sensed no irony in this laughter, only genuine delight, which made him even more curious. Next, Sima smiled and said, “Heiyun did not tell you because he has followed me the longest and knows my temperament. Since you ask directly, I have nothing to hide. I am Sima Chengzhen, with the Daoist title Dao Yin.”

This time, Du Shiyi’s memory was stirred—not from his previous self, who focused solely on classic texts and poetry, indifferent to monks and priests—but from his own former life, where he had seen this name inscribed on ancient stone rubbings treasured by his father. Along with this name came many anecdotes.

“Are you the leader of the Shangqing sect on Mount Mao?”

Sima Chengzhen regarded Du Shiyi’s furrowed brow and sudden realization with amusement, finding the youth’s reactions genuine and interesting. Add to that Sima Heiyun’s prior reports about him, and Sima was quite satisfied. He nodded and said, “I prefer peace and quiet, not crowds, though today it seems the influx of guests will only grow. I returned to Songshan at Zifang’s request because Songyang Temple preserves many original works by our ninth-generation founder Tao, written in his own hand. These were gifts from my late teacher to the temple, and some I have no copies of myself. Since you told Heiyun you could copy them, you’ve become my helper.”

Du Shiyi was surprised to learn that Sima Chengzhen’s visit to Songshan was for this purpose, and he gave a wry smile. “If you openly requested this, willing copyists would line up all the way to the foot of Junji Peak.”

“Not so. I have not made the request, but today the guests already fill every corner. A pity for the professional scribes—they’ll lose a lucrative contract!” Sima Chengzhen smiled and continued, “Though they volunteer to serve this old Daoist, you, Young Master Du, are here to repay the debt for the Kunlun slave, so there is a difference. I hear you know medicine and acupuncture. In that case, how about copying the ‘Collected Annotations on the Materia Medica,’ written in Tao’s own hand? Although the court has revised the Materia Medica, what remains from our founder would be a true loss if it were ever misplaced.”

The original “Collected Annotations on the Materia Medica” by Tao Hongjing!

In later times, only the preface remained of Tao Hongjing’s version, a Dunhuang cave relic, which, after being taken to Japan, became lost to history. He had only seen a treasured copy his father never showed others, said to be given long ago by a mentor. Another fragment was in Germany, but even after traveling much of the globe, he had never seen it. Now, to copy Tao Hongjing’s handwritten original—how could he refuse?

“It is my wish, though I dare not ask for it.”

Seeing Du Shiyi rise and bow in delight, Sima Chengzhen laughed, “In that case, will you stay at Songyang Temple to copy, or return to your cottage?”

Though Songyang Temple would soon be full of distinguished guests, bringing many opportunities, Du Shiyi replied without hesitation, “If you permit, I would ask Brother Sima to send the book to my cottage, where I can copy it each day and have him return the manuscript. The cottage is more peaceful, better suited for focused work.”

Sima Chengzhen laughed, nodded without a second thought, and said, “Good! We’ll do as you wish. Seeing you wandering earlier, I guessed you wouldn’t return to the Flying Star Pavilion. I’ll have Heiyun bring the book and accompany you back. I’ll inform Master Song and Zifang for you.”