Chapter 27: Wandering the World with a Sword (IX) — Flowing Wine by the Winding Stream

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The events of last night stirred the entire Xiang County. Some said the river bandits set off firecrackers at midnight without any decorum; others blamed the county’s military officials for their incompetence—how could they chase all night and still let them escape? Of course, what they didn’t know was that the officials faced masters of their craft, aided by Hua Chuer’s cunning; catching them was an impossibility.

The next morning, while others woke bleary-eyed with swollen faces, Wu Yueling and Hua Chuer slept soundly after their return. After breakfast, they prepared to leave the city for a spring outing.

Just as they stepped out of the Inn of Noon Guests, they heard several scholars gathered by the roadside, striding briskly ahead. With keen hearing, Wu Yueling caught their words.

“What does it mean to build a Spring Pavilion temporarily? And they’re digging a canal too?” Wu Yueling asked Hua Chuer, puzzled.

Hua Chuer shook her head, indicating she too was uncertain. “Miss, shall we follow and see for ourselves?”

Wu Yueling walked ahead, cradling her little lynx; Hua Chuer followed, sword in hand. The two left the city.

Trailing the group of scholars for some time, they learned the true cause: Qin Gong, the foremost wealthy merchant of Xiang County, was constructing a small pavilion at Flowing Water Slope, inviting the county’s talents and beauties for a spring gathering.

Not only the Qin family, but other prominent families’ sons would attend. The Qin family would host, and anyone who could compose a poem would be seated to enjoy fine wine and food.

At noon, poems would be judged by the renowned scholar Kong Fu and Abbot Shihui from Wuxiang Temple. The three best poems would grant their authors places of honor at Qin Gong’s refined banquet.

Wu Yueling found it intriguing—ancient people truly knew how to entertain. Her interest piqued, she was eager to watch the spectacle.

Leaving Xiang County and following the winding pebble path to Flowing Water Slope, Wu Yueling picked a wild yellow flower, sniffed it, and tucked it into Hua Chuer’s hair bun. Seeing her mistress in high spirits, Hua Chuer playfully tossed a handful of petals toward Wu Yueling’s head.

The little lynx, poking its head from its mistress’s arms, was showered in petals, bewildered, shaking its head and sneezing the petals off its nose.

Ascending the mountain, they reached a plateau at the waist, already crowded. Servants carried wine jars, others set up tables and arranged brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones.

Early-arriving scholars left their poems at the writing desks, passed by Qin family guards, and gathered in groups by the water channel, sitting by the food tables. Some laughed heartily, waiting for the host to serve wine and food; others gazed toward the pavilion above, admiration in their eyes.

Flowing Water Slope was perfectly suited—a small cliff dropped a pale stream into a pond below, on whose gentle green slope stood a two-story pavilion. Both levels were fenced, but only the upper had bamboo curtains.

The slender water channel extended around the food tables, encircling the Spring Pavilion. Clear water flowed, occasionally fish darted through. The channel passed through the pavilion’s center, where a large table held an exquisite chessboard. On the left sat a stunning lady; on the right, a round-faced elderly monk. They sat in quiet contemplation, undisturbed by whispers, their chess pieces locked in a fierce, indecisive battle.

Beside them, incense smoke curled from a burner, and a small charcoal stove simmered tea, prepared by the scholar Kong Fu for the players.

Above, the host Qin Gong sat with a well-groomed courtesan, who played the pipa and sang softly—she was Li Wan’er, renowned for her “Song of Fragrant Compassion.”

Spring’s brilliance shone overhead, green vitality flourished below, music drifted through the pavilion, infusing the wilds with lively human presence. Birds alighted on the roof, chiming in with the music, as if this were a celestial realm.

Wu Yueling, hearing the pipa, was refreshed—perhaps it had been long since she heard music. Enjoying such melodious sounds in the wild dispelled all her vexations and worries.

“Miss, let’s find a place to sit,” Hua Chuer said excitedly. As the infamous Flower Thief, she cared little for literary gatherings, but had to admit the occasion was quite elegant, though she wondered if she might pilfer something.

Wu Yueling nodded. “Let’s experience what it’s like to be among scholars.”

They headed toward the food tables, only to be stopped by guards.

“Ladies, please leave your poem here before taking a seat.”

Hua Chuer glanced at the guard, at the indicated spot, then at her mistress, rolling her long hair and whispering, “Can’t you make an exception? I can’t write poetry.”

The guard frowned, voice firm. “Qin Gong’s rules cannot be broken. If you can’t compose, please leave. This place isn’t for commoners.”

The scholars laughed mockingly. Above, Qin Gong noticed, shook his head with a smile. These two ladies, aside from Qin Muyu at the chessboard, were unmatched in beauty, but without poetry, how could they enter? He squinted, spotting beggars and woodcutters in the distance, and ordered guards to drive them away.

Hua Chuer, red-faced with anger—so what if she couldn’t compose? Was it so great to write poetry? She was a famed thief! She was about to retort when Wu Yueling stopped her.

“May I ask, if one writes for both, can both be seated?” Wu Yueling asked calmly.

The guard pondered, then told Wu Yueling to wait while he asked Qin Gong. Soon, he returned with a contemptuous smile. “It’s allowed. If one of you can compose, you may write for both, but no outside help.”

Wu Yueling raised her head, ignored the guard, and went to the writing desk.

As she reached for the brush, a young man in blue robes strode over, shaking a green paper fan. He snatched the brush, arrogantly jotting his own poem, then raised an eyebrow at Wu Yueling. “Oh, Miss, after being laughed at, why not let Qian write a poem for you?”

Without waiting for her answer, he went below and bowed to the bamboo curtain above. “Qin Gong, I, Qian Bu Gou, boldly request an exception to write a poem for this lady.”

Through the curtain, Qin Hesong nodded to Qian Bu Gou, honoring the Qian family’s status.

Qian Bu Gou, delighted, turned to curry favor with Wu Yueling, but she was already seated, playing with her lynx. Hua Chuer stuck out her tongue at Qian Bu Gou. He turned green with anger, glanced at the table, saw the poem was written, and left with his servants, secretly resenting Wu Yueling for making him lose face.

Wu Yueling glanced aside, seeing an elderly white-haired man seated in the woods, attended by two fresh-faced youths. Before him lay a long wooden board, its purpose unclear.

Guards came from the pavilion to greet him, but his servants rebuffed them.

Qin Gong, annoyed, had built the pavilion to attract Xiang County’s renowned figures and talents. Yet this well-dressed old man sat and watched, not participating, his identity unknown. Qin Gong could not rashly expel him, so he drank in mild disappointment.

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When the spring sun fully covered the slope, Wu Yueling sipped her tea and heard a commotion behind her.

“Look, that’s Qin Gongzi, carrying a three-foot sword, riding a fine horse—truly the eldest son of the Qin family.”

“And beside him is the third son of the Fang family, already a successful scholar at a young age, soon to take office.”

“Hey, who’s that in straw sandals and coarse clothes, blocked by the guards?”

“That’s... seems to be Li Mengran, a poor scholar from the fishing village outside the city. He’s said to have talent, but probably here for free food and drink.”

Wu Yueling looked over, seeing three distinct figures. The white-clad youth on horseback was unruly, hair simply tied back, chest neatly dressed. Wu Yueling felt his wildness seemed contrived, a bit like a copycat.

Beside him, the third son of the Fang family was ambitious and mature, unlike the wild youth. What caught Wu Yueling’s attention was the blocked scholar in coarse clothing. His brow held a heroic air, tinged with melancholy, as if frustrated.

Soon, all three were seated. Qin Gongzi and Fang San Gongzi sat beside Qian Er Gongzi, exchanging respectful greetings, evidently old acquaintances.

Li Mengran wandered by the water channel, unable to find a seat. Even when tables had space, scholars scoffed at his poverty, shifting to block him, some even pushing him down and laughing.

Wu Yueling beckoned to the just-risen Li Mengran, inviting him to sit. She noticed his worn sandals exposed his big toe—truly impoverished, though his spirit remained undiminished.

Li Mengran, somewhat embarrassed, cupped his hands to Wu Yueling and Hua Chuer. “Li thanks the ladies for allowing me to sit.”

“Why thank me? Thank my mistress,” Hua Chuer said, bored, scooping water from the channel.

“Li thanks Miss—may I know your name?” Li Mengran asked sincerely.

Wu Yueling told him not to be formal, it was just a seat, and they exchanged names.

The white-haired elder by the woods stroked his beard, observing Wu Yueling’s subtle gesture, seeming to find inspiration, and finally picked up his brush.

At noon, the warm sun shone. Below, the chess match ended—Qin Muyu narrowly defeated Abbot Shihui. Kong Fu applauded, praising Qin Muyu’s skill.

Qin Muyu, modest in victory, moved to the guqin, signaled to Kong Fu and Shihui, and played “High Mountains and Flowing Water.”

Servants gathered the poems, passing them into the pavilion for the judges.

Half an hour later, the aroma of dishes from the field kitchen stirred hunger among the scholars, drawing complaints.

The music suddenly stopped, puzzling everyone into silence.

Wu Yueling looked below, wondering what was happening, when an elder’s voice rang out, displeased. “Who is Wu Yueling, author of ‘Spring Dawn’?” Kong Fu, stern-faced, held a sheet of paper, stepping outside, anger in his eyes.

The assembled scholars, seeing Kong Fu’s displeasure, looked around, wondering who had plagiarized Mengshan’s “Spring Dawn.”

Wu Yueling, hearing her name, raised her hand. “I transcribed it—what’s wrong? Does the elder find fault?”

“Tell me, who wrote this poem?”

“Meng Haoran, of course. I couldn’t write my own, so I transcribed his.” Wu Yueling stood to answer.

“Good, good, good! Such honesty—I won’t blame you.” Kong Fu returned inside, now pleased, and produced another sheet, clearing his throat: “The thick strings clatter like urgent rain, the thin strings whisper like private speech. The clatter and whisper mingle in confusion, big and small pearls fall on a jade plate! Ha ha ha, a fine poem! Though this is only the first half, could Miss Wu Yueling compose the second?”

Li Wan’er, seated with her pipa, brightened—someone praised her playing! But soon she was disappointed.

“I can’t recall the second half,” Wu Yueling shrugged, thinking, this was a poem she memorized in high school, recalled only thanks to the pipa. She couldn’t recite it all.

“Alas, what a pity!” Kong Fu shook his head and went inside.

A chorus of debate arose, some supporting Wu Yueling’s talent, others deriding her for copying.

Wu Yueling shrugged—she had said it was copied. Participating in a poetry gathering was this troublesome? Sigh...

“Miss, truly talented, Li admires you,” Li Mengran said with a smile, cupping his hands. Wu Yueling returned the gesture.

Soon, the old monk emerged, eyes on Li Mengran, his round face like a smiling Buddha. “Spring sun lazily shines, southern breeze gently brushes. Fish swim the winding water, pavilions sit on high hills. Congratulations to Li Mengran for his poem ‘Stealing Spring for Qin Gong,’ which wins first place, followed by Qin Gongzi and Fang San Gongzi. Qian Er Gongzi is left out—try again next year. As for Miss Wu Yueling, if you compose the second half, you may join the high pavilion banquet.”

Wu Yueling waved, indicating she couldn’t recall, stirring more doubts.

Abbot Shihui sighed, leading Li Mengran and others to the second floor, to Qin Gong’s refined banquet.

Soon, fragrant dishes were served, bronze cups of pale green wine floated in the winding water, and the feast began.

Hua Chuer, lacking all ladylike manners, grabbed a cup from the water and drank. Wu Yueling laughed at her eating, feeding meat to the lynx.

Above, the pipa sounded, below, the guqin. Kong Fu praised the music, then rose for the second round of the poetry gathering, raising his cup outside. “Whoever writes a fine poem below shall be rewarded with a cup of amber wine—judged by me!”

This stirred the scholars’ enthusiasm, and Li Wan’er descended to judge as well. With two beauties and tempting wine, many tried for a poem, seeking a glimpse of the beauties and a taste of amber wine; some succeeded, others left in disappointment, unable to taste the wine.

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Qian Bu Gou, holding his wine cup, felt utterly uncomfortable and disgruntled. Why could Li Mengran enter Qin Gong’s refined banquet, while Wu Yueling, supposedly lacking talent, relied on her looks to sneak in for food and wine?

The more he brooded, the more irate he became—he drank too much and was now rather drunk.

He got up, staggered to Wu Yueling’s table, slammed his bronze cup down, the scent of wine spreading. “Hmph, hic! Miss, why not compose a new poem inside and take a cup... a cup of amber wine?”

“Then why don’t you? Why come here to chatter?” Hua Chuer retorted, secretly snatching Qian Bu Gou’s jade pendant and tossing it unnoticed into the winding water.

“Hmph, amber wine? My family has thousands of jars, inexhaustible, nothing to envy!” Qian Er Gongzi sneered.

“That’s right, Qian Er Gongzi speaks truth,” a scholar nearby agreed, coldly eyeing Wu Yueling.

Hua Chuer, annoyed, puffed her cheeks—these troublemakers never stopped.

Wu Yueling looked at the scholar behind Qian Bu Gou, then at the guests watching her, feeling helpless. She stood. “Fine, I’ll try the amber wine. Chuer, come with me!”

“Alright!” Hua Chuer said, happily following.

The bustle below was clearly observed above. Qin Gong smiled, curious about this lady’s origins. Li Mengran, seated with Qin Gong, felt gratitude seeing Wu Yueling targeted by the self-important scholars, hoping to help her if possible.

“If you can’t compose, sing a song or dance for us!” Qian Er Gongzi scooped a cup from the water and drank.

The others laughed, agreeing—if she couldn’t compose, surely she could dance? Some suggested Li Wan’er teach her on the spot. The suggestion reached Li Wan’er’s ears, making her feel humiliated; as a singer, her status was low, and none cared for her feelings.

Wu Yueling waved dismissively. “Sorry, besides composing, I can do nothing else!”

Her confident words earned scorn from the scholars.

Standing on the steps, she called for order, suppressing the noisy gathering. “Ahem! Silence, please!”

All eyes turned to Wu Yueling, ears eager for her embarrassment.

“Next, I’m going to recite—a poem called ‘Spring Day! A Good Day in Spring!’”

Wu Yueling cleared her throat and began: “On a splendid day, seeking beauty by the Si River’s shore, boundless scenes suddenly new. Recognizing the east wind’s face with ease, myriad colors, all are spring!”

Qian Bu Gou’s bronze cup slipped, wine spilled everywhere. The hall fell silent, save for the gentle flow of the water, even Qin Muyu’s music paused.

Kong Fu instantly recognized the Si River—a metaphor for the Sage’s way. To hear such words from a young lady shamed his old face.

The scholars who had opposed Wu Yueling now admired her: “Myriad colors, all are spring” painted a dazzling spring scene, matching the earlier boundless view—truly fresh and natural!

Wu Yueling ignored their reactions, holding her lynx, leading Hua Chuer boldly into the pavilion, taking a bronze cup of amber wine from the water channel and drinking it all. The wine was sweet, not harsh, like nectar—one sip led to another, endlessly satisfying.

Before Kong Fu could recover, Wu Yueling knocked her head, recalling a lyric. Without hesitation, she took another cup from the stream, drank it, and tossed the cup aside. The lynx leapt down, licking the wine’s fragrant remains.

A spring breeze fluttered the bamboo curtain above, its sound pulling everyone back to reality. Wu Yueling leaned on the railing and continued, “Now a lyric! ‘Butterfly Loves Flower!’”

She drank another cup, and the scholars could only watch as each line earned her a cup, until the amber wine in the channel was gone, her lyric recited, and Wu Yueling, sliding against the railing, fell drunk into Hua Chuer’s arms. The lynx, too, swayed and lay at Hua Chuer’s feet.

“Though my clothes grow loose, I regret nothing—for you, I’d waste away!” Li Wan’er was stunned, tears sparkling in her eyes. Overcome, she struck her pipa, emotion preceding melody, and a sorrowful tune rose.

“Leaning on a high tower in the fine breeze, gazing far, spring sorrow, darkening the horizon...”

For a moment, the scholars felt the lingering sentiment, immersed in Li Wan’er’s superb pipa playing.

Qian Bu Gou sat dazed, his drunkenness banished. Qin Gong was astonished. Li Mengran’s opinion of Wu Yueling was thoroughly renewed.

Such verses are rare—she was truly a once-in-a-century talented woman! Whispered praises passed among the guests.

When Wu Yueling was sent to Wuxiang Temple to sober up, the mournful pipa ceased. All sighed at her talent, especially after Kong Fu explained the story of Confucius lecturing by the Si River—only then did the scholars feel ashamed. She not only wrote of spring, but sought the Sage’s way in spring, unlike their own pursuit of wine and food.

Qin Gong thought the poetry gathering was over—regretting he hadn’t discovered Wu Yueling’s talent earlier. But he did not know the event’s climax had just begun.

A loud laugh echoed from the woods, startling Qin Gong and the guests. The old man, seemingly satisfied, left with his two youths and servants. Qin Gong sent someone to inquire, only to find the drawing board’s paper.

Qin Gong and the three young talents viewed all ninety-eight paintings, astonished—aside from a few depicting Qin Gong in the pavilion and the chess match below, most showed Wu Yueling’s every expression, though they seemed incomplete, missing two perfect pieces!

After reading the inscription, Qin Gong was both regretful and angry, drinking ten cups of amber wine and falling unconscious.

The paintings were passed among the guests, all recognizing the hand of today’s Sage of Painting. To see even his drafts was a blessing, and envy grew—Wu Yueling not only had talent, but was chosen by Wu Daozi to be immortalized in art, truly admirable!

Thus, a tale spread through Xiang County, with children singing in the streets:

“Talented Wu Yueling, drinks and recites her poetry. Sage Wu Daozi, paints three hundred scrolls.”