Chapter 10:
Distilled Autumn Water
DAI SHENGYAN, the old geezer, seemed particularly fond of Wangqing Pavilion. He had even set up his classroom there. Thanks to a few snow-free days and the warmth of several charcoal braziers, Xie Jinglan—although wrapped snugly in furs—no longer had to fear the lakeside chill.
The scenery around Yanbo Lake was all the more mesmerizing in the depths of winter. The sky and water were shining expanses of white, the distant mountain range smudged between them like a stroke of dark ink. Initially, it seemed as if they were seated inside a landscape painting.
But Xiahou Lian was only there to pass the time. During every class, he propped a book on the table with a novel hidden underneath it. When he felt like it, he listened briefly to the lessons on benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust. And when he lost interest again, he napped or read his novel.
His lack of ambition exasperated Dai Shengyan. At first, the old man tried to encourage him, but he eventually gave up.
Xie Jinglan, meanwhile, listened with rapt attention. After just a few days, dense annotations covered his book. Xiahou Lian felt dizzy just looking at them.
Dai Shengyan’s classes were quite intriguing. He taught only in the mornings, leaving the afternoons for Xie Jinglan to read while fishing from the pavilion’s viewing platform. If Xie Jinglan had questions, he could go to Dai Shengyan and ask. During such a session, Xie Jinglan stood respectfully by Dai Shengyan’s side and posed questions for what felt like hours. Meanwhile, Xiahou Lian sat idly by, counting down the minutes until he could go home and chase sparrows.
Dai Shengyan shook his head at Xiahou Lian. “The essence of learning lies in thinking. If you think, you’ll have doubts, and if you have doubts, you’ll ask questions. Don’t you have anything you’d like to ask, Xiao-Lian?”
Xie Jinglan replied for him. “Xiahou Lian doesn’t even read real books. What could he possibly ask? My guess is that he’s only curious about the best way to catch birds.”
Xiahou Lian laughed. “Shaoye knows me best.”
Dai Shengyan sighed; he was at the end of his rope. “Are you serious?”
Xiahou Lian was equally resigned. “Fine, Xiansheng. Since you asked, I do have a question.”
“Oh? Let’s hear it.”
Xie Jinglan also turned to look at Xiahou Lian, who stuck out his tongue and asked, “Of all the Confucians, was Confucius the most knowledgeable?”
“Of course,” Dai Shengyan replied.
“Then did he have to memorize the Mencius and Tang dynasty poetry? Or write eight-legged essays?”
Dai Shengyan chuckled. “How could he have memorized the Mencius? Mencius lived a century after Confucius. Tang dynasty poetry and eight-legged essays came even later. This question is rather sloppy, Xiao-Lian.”
“Ohhh,” said Xiahou Lian, drawing out the sound. “But if even Confucius, the wisest of them all, didn’t have to study those things, why must we?”
Dai Shengyan was speechless for a moment. “Fine, fine. I’ll leave you be.”
From that point forward, Xiahou Lian was free to do as he pleased. As long as he turned in a few poems each day, he’d pass. But even writing poems, with their rhyme schemes and structural guidelines, was torturous. Xiahou Lian would scratch his head, rack his brain, and sneak a few glances at Xie Jinglan’s work before cobbling a few lines of his own together. The days were so onerous that Xiahou Lian felt like he would go prematurely gray.
But Dai Shengyan’s classes weren’t entirely boring. During breaks, he often shared anecdotes from his travels or horror stories he’d read in books.
Though Dai Shengyan appeared thin and frail, the classic image of a proper old scholar, his taste in stories was surprisingly dark. Nine out of ten tales he told were frightening, and some were particularly chilling, such as “The Human-Faced Arm Sore,” “The Hand Beneath the Bed,” or “The Smiling Mountain Flowers.”
In truth, Xie Jinglan thought Dai Shengyan’s ghost stories were a waste of time. He would’ve preferred more discussions on Mencius. He couldn’t very well interrupt, though, so he tried instead to study on his own as Dai Shengyan spoke. Yet a moment of carelessness later, he’d find himself hooked, and before he knew it, he’d listened to one spine-chilling tale after another.
Xiahou Lian, who was fearless by nature, saw the horrific stories as trifles, like bedtime snacks. He’d heard plenty of tales that were bloodier and more disturbing. However, this was Xie Jinglan’s first time hearing such tales, and Dai Shengyan’s eerie descriptions sent shivers down his spine and raised prickling goosebumps on his skin. Despite his fear, he was captivated, hanging on to every word. At night, he tossed and turned, unable to stop himself from checking his arms for a dreaded human-faced sore.
Outside his window, rain began pattering, accompanied by howling wind. The roof tiles rang beneath the plink of raindrops. Xie Jinglan couldn’t sleep, so—barefoot, with his blanket trailing behind him—he headed to the outer room to join Xiahou Lian. All he found there, though, was an empty bed.
It was the dead of night. Where could he have gone?
Had he been kidnapped by a ghost or something...?
Of course, Xiahou Lian hadn’t been abducted by ghosts. At that moment, he was creeping along the walkways, leaping and climbing until he reached Xie Bingfeng’s study and vaulted through the window.
Xie Bingfeng’s study was significantly larger than Xie Jingtao’s and brimmed with enough books to dazzle the eye. Xiahou Lian made a beeline for the desk, pulling open each drawer until he discovered a stack of letters. Unprotected by lock or key, they likely weren’t confidential. Relying on his eidetic memory, Xiahou Lian quickly skimmed each letter’s contents, memorizing every name he read.
Xie Bingfeng’s life seemed terribly dull. The letters either discussed scholarly pursuits—music, chess, calligraphy, painting—or current political affairs—droughts in eastern Zhejiang, floods along the Yellow River, Tatar invasions at the borders, and so on. There were also quite a few tirades against the eunuch faction.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps approached outside the study. Xiahou Lian froze, then quickly replaced the letters, closed the drawer, and hid inside a cabinet.
The study door opened. Two people stumbled in, colliding with the desk. The sound of heavy breathing filled the room. Who would dare to fight in Xie Bingfeng’s study?
“Close the door, you scoundrel,” a delicate voice panted.
“All right, all right, I’ll close it,” a male voice replied.
Xiahou Lian held his breath, staying perfectly still inside the cabinet.
These two were clearly in the throes of passion, the desk shaking with their movements. The woman moaned more and more loudly, her voice mingling with the man’s heavy breaths.
Xiahou Lian wasn’t ignorant of such activities. He’d flipped through a few of his mother’s illustrated books in secret, and though he’d never experienced it himself, he knew enough to blush at what he was overhearing.
He gently cracked the cabinet door open and saw two bodies entwined atop the desk. The woman’s eyes were closed, her expression a mix of pain and pleasure, while the man’s back was to Xiahou Lian. Each thrust caused the desk to shudder violently.
The woman’s hand slid up the man’s spine. Suddenly, her seemingly delicate fingers clamped down, then yanked and twisted. A sharp crack echoed through the room, followed by a muffled groan as the man collapsed to the floor like an old, torn sack. His eyes were vacant; he was clearly dead.
Xiahou Lian had never seen a corpse before. The sight was far more gruesome than the tidy lines of text in his novels or his mother’s simple descriptions conveyed. The body was still warm, its bloodshot eyes open in an empty stare. Xiahou Lian stared at the pale face, his hands growing cold as he clutched the cabinet door.
He covered his mouth, terrified, and quietly pulled the cabinet door shut, waiting for the woman to leave.
Suddenly, the delicate voice spoke again. “Come out, little thief in the cabinet.”
He’d been discovered! Heart racing, Xiahou Lian debated whether to obey.
At that point, a blade as thin as a cicada’s wing pierced the cabinet door, stopping an inch from Xiahou Lian’s nose. He gaped at the gleaming blade, his heart nearly leaping from his throat.
“If I stab again, it will draw blood.”
Xiahou Lian covered his eyes with one hand and crawled from the cabinet. “Spare me, Jiejie! I didn’t see anything—I don’t know anything!”
“No? I wondered who’d be brazen enough to sneak into the lord’s study in the dead of night. So it was you, young Xiahou.”
Lowering his hand, Xiahou Lian saw a beautiful woman standing before him, her lips curved in a half smile. She was dressed like the manor’s maids and was still disheveled from her earlier “battle.” Her garments had slipped down, revealing her rounded shoulders and breasts.
The woman reached under her arm and tore away the white mounds, then peeled off her mask to reveal a handsome, elegant face. She stretched her neck, her cracking bones echoing as she instantly grew several inches taller.