Chapter Eleven: My Heart Mirrors Yours (Part One) – First Update
After such an interlude, the atmosphere between the two parties became lively. Zheng Shian invited Zhang Zhongjian and his companions to the camp for drinks, and Zhang Zhongjian, Sun Simiao, and Du Ruhui accepted without hesitation.
Everyone drank heartily, reveling late into the night. When Zhang Zhongjian and the others finally took their leave, Zheng Shian entered the carriage and gently roused the already sleeping Zheng Yanqing.
“Grandfather, what is it?”
“Yanqing, about what you said to Du Ruhui earlier… I mean, why did you make things up? When did the young master ever mention him? You’ve never even met Master Yan Shigu—how could you possibly know his assessment?”
Half-asleep, Zheng Yanqing murmured softly, “Do not look down on a youth for his poverty; though he is destitute today, who can say he will not soar high tomorrow?”
“Huh?” Zheng Shian was taken aback, but did not press further.
Yanqing lay curled across his grandfather’s lap, falling into a deep sleep. Yet Zheng Shian’s mind was awash with emotion as he gazed at his grandson, his eyes complex.
Do not look down on a youth for his poverty! Yanqing, Yanqing, are you speaking of Du Ruhui, or are you speaking of yourself?
For a moment, Zheng Shian felt a sense of helpless confusion. He had a premonition that this grandson of his would not simply follow the path he had laid out… Perhaps Yanqing’s future would be extraordinary?
No, he still carried the mark of a lowly household; for the sake of his future, that must be resolved as soon as possible.
With this thought, Zheng Shian fell into deep contemplation.
Dawn was approaching; a faint pale light crept along the horizon. The campfires in both encampments had died out, and everyone was deep in sweet dreams.
Just then, there came a sudden clatter of hooves. This was followed by the ringing of a gong, jolting Zheng Shian and Yanqing awake.
“Weishan, what’s happening?”
Outside the carriage, Zheng Weishan replied, “I’m not sure, the gong is coming from Zhang Zhongjian’s side.”
Before he could finish, they heard Zhang Zhongjian shout: “Who goes there? Halt, or we’ll loose our arrows!”
“Don’t shoot, don’t shoot!”
The horses neighed and stamped, their cries echoing under the dawn sky. Then a voice called out, “Is this the camp of Zheng’s Anyuan Hall?”
They’re looking for us?
Zheng Shian took Yanqing’s hand and stepped out of the carriage. Standing atop the shaft, he looked out and saw more than a dozen warhorses halted ahead. The riders, all clad in white with white headscarves, brandished gleaming blades in their hands.
Zheng Shian frowned and motioned for Zheng Weishan to respond.
“I am Zheng Weishan of Anyuan Hall. May I ask which friend has come to call?”
One of the white-clad riders turned his horse to face Zheng’s encampment and called, “May I ask if Young Master Zheng Yanqing is present?”
They’re looking for Yanqing?
This puzzled not only Zheng Shian but Yanqing himself. He didn’t know these white-clad strangers, and he had never left Xingyang in his life—how could anyone know him?
Judging from their tone, however, they seemed to mean no harm.
Yanqing stepped forward, “I am Zheng Yanqing. Who are you?”
The rider glanced at Yanqing, then dismounted with a fluid swing and strode forward. Zheng Weishan and his men grew wary, while Zhang Zhongjian, Sun Simiao, and the others hurried over, watching the white-clad rider approach Yanqing with suspicion.
“My young lady has something to deliver to Young Master Yanqing.”
“I am he!”
The rider nodded, produced a small bundle from his robe, and handed it to Yanqing.
The bundle was wrapped in white cloth, covered in writing. Inside was a lock of jet-black hair and a dagger with a jade handle and green sharkskin sheath. Yanqing recognized it at once—it was the green-pearl dagger that Duoduo always carried.
He gasped and quickly called after the rider, asking softly, “Is Duoduo all right? Did she leave any message?”
“My young lady is well, but cannot show herself at present. There is a note on the bundle; please read it carefully… I have other matters and will not trouble you further. Farewell, Young Master Yanqing.”
“Wait!”
Yanqing seized the rider’s arm.
But the rider’s arm slipped away like a fish. Though Yanqing had grasped him, he wrenched free in an instant.
“Does Young Master Yanqing require anything else?”
“Just a moment!”
Yanqing turned. Zheng Shian had already ordered a torch lit and approached with it. By its light, Yanqing saw that the white cloth was densely covered with elegant script:
Sorrow that breaks the soul, is it not parting? Between Qin and Wu, the lands are severed; between Yan and Song, a thousand miles apart. Spring moss newly grows; autumn wind stirs anew. Thus the traveler is heartsick, a hundred sorrows keen and desolate…
This was the famous “Farewell Prose” by Jiang Yan of the Southern Dynasties, especially the line “Sorrow that breaks the soul, is it not parting?”—renowned throughout the ages. Yanqing’s cheeks twitched, a wave of sadness filling his heart. The lock of hair was surely cut by Duoduo herself.
“Grandfather, do you have a brush?”
Zheng Shian was surprised—could Yanqing read?
He’d always thought Yanqing’s scribblings were mere child’s play and had never paid attention. But this was the “Farewell Prose”; how could a child understand such a work? For the first time, Zheng Shian regarded Yanqing in a new light, sensing the boy was far from ordinary. Yet since Yanqing disliked writing, Zheng Shian did not refuse.
At that moment, Du Ruhui spoke up, “I have a brush. Yanqing, what do you intend?”
He carried a bundle of books, paper, and brushes with him. He placed them on the carriage shaft, handed a brush to Yanqing, and set out an inkstone, watching curiously as Yanqing prepared the ink.
Not only Du Ruhui, but Sun Simiao and Zhang Zhongjian were also intrigued. They didn’t know who Duoduo was, but could guess something from the exchange. Since Duoduo had used the “Farewell Prose” to express her grief at parting, perhaps Yanqing would reply in kind? If so, this boy was indeed remarkable.
But Yanqing didn’t overthink it. Holding the lock of hair, still warm from Duoduo, he understood the pain she felt in their parting—the “Farewell Prose” had said it all.
Whatever the reason, Yanqing knew now that Duoduo’s heart was with him.
When they had been together, he hadn’t felt much. They’d teased each other, even exchanged barbs. Only now, after parting, did he realize the warmth of those days. That line by Jiang Yan—“Sorrow that breaks the soul, is it not parting?”—truly captured the essence of it all.
Ah well, call it what you like—call me a lover of youth, or a devotee of innocence!
Yanqing pondered for a moment, then wrote swiftly on the paper:
I dwell at the head of the Yangtze, you at the tail;
Every day I long for you, yet never see you,
Though both of us drink from the river’s waters.
When will these waters cease to flow,
When will this longing end?
Only may your heart be like mine—
Never to betray our bond of yearning…
A single “Bu Suan Zi” sufficed.
The ci, this form of poetry, had yet to rise in this era. Being lyrics set to music, they were called “tune-poems,” comprised of lines of varying length.
By the Sui and Tang dynasties, the ci had begun to take shape, though not yet fully formed. Many saw it as nothing more than a popular street song, unworthy of wider promotion. Yet every art form, once born, finds its own space to survive. Of course, among the upper classes, ci was still regarded as a minor art.
But the key was—how old was Yanqing?
I dwell at the head of the Yangtze, you at the tail; we never meet, yet both drink from the same river. In truth, Duoduo and Yanqing breathed beneath the same sky—what did a thousand miles’ distance matter?
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The first update must be posted at dawn.
I have to go out in the morning, and may not return by noon, so the first update comes at dawn. The second will still be around five o’clock. From this chapter onward, the heroes of Sui and Tang will begin to appear. I humbly ask for your continued support!