Chapter Nine: Seventh Brother's Noodle Shop

The fox’s performance was nothing short of dazzling, but to Tie Xinyuan, it was simply the inevitable result of his efforts. Ever since returning to Tokyo, he had begun to train it with a clear purpose, for foxes are, after all, more intelligent than most other animals. Especially when the fox before you is a little one whose sole aim in life is to fill its belly—training becomes much simpler.

After feeding the fox, Tie Xinyuan required it to bring him something in return, even if it was only a stick. If it failed, there would be no next meal, and it would receive a punishment. After six months of consistent training, the little fox had learned that whenever it was given food, it must offer something in return. Thus began its habit of collecting treasures, and the Shoushan stone was but one among many.

The Tie family’s fox had almost become a legend in Tokyo. Many idle townsfolk would gather near the Tie home, hoping to catch a glimpse of this extraordinary animal. Their eyes would nearly pop out of their heads when they saw the little fox trotting home with a tiny bamboo basket in its mouth, helping the mistress carry clean laundry—a sight none had witnessed before.

Naturally, this attracted the attention of some with less honorable intentions. They hoped to capture the fox and present it to some wealthy household, perhaps for a handsome profit. Yet their plans were always foiled. The fox never strayed more than ten steps from the Imperial City, and the royal guards atop the city walls, knowing how much His Majesty was enchanted by the animal, treated any would-be captors with open hostility.

Besides, when winter winds bit hard and the guards huddled atop the walls, the fox would always appear, bringing a small jug of warm yellow wine to ward off the chill. There was never much—barely enough for each man to have a sip—but the Tie family was not wealthy. That they remembered the guards at all in such weather was a rare kindness.

From time to time, the people of Tokyo would see the fox perched on the ramparts of the Imperial City, calling out with a soft yelp, a clear sign that the royal household had recognized its presence.

At the same time, rumors of a fox spirit began to circulate once more, and some mischief-makers even reported the matter to the Kaifeng Prefecture. When Bao Zheng saw the petition, he merely laughed it off. A fox spirit? Nonsense. If he, as an upright man, were to treat a clever fox as a demon, he would become the laughingstock of the scholar-officials of the Song.

The wise do not discuss the supernatural.

Bao Zheng did harbor some concerns about the Tie mother and son living at the very foot of the Imperial City, but the emperor’s word was law. What was spoken before the assembly could not be rescinded. He disdained to argue with the emperor over such a trivial matter.

The affairs of the two Empress Dowagers had already torn the bonds between the emperor and his ministers nearly to shreds, the rift growing sharper by the day. Bao Zheng always believed that squandering the energies of ruler and court on matters that did nothing for the nation or its people was a waste.

He had seen the Tie family’s fox in the palace. When the emperor was so absorbed in reading memorials that he missed meals, the impatient fox would keep vigil at the window, hopping up from time to time to check whether His Majesty was eating. It was, in the end, only a greedy animal; if, as the eunuchs claimed, it managed to get the emperor to eat a little more, then its presence was a blessing.

It was no more than a pampered creature—the worst it could do was eat a bit extra. Compared to the harm wrought by the useless officials who merely occupied their posts in the court, this was a trifling matter.

Yet he could not help but think of the Tie family’s infant, and those eyes of his—not eyes a child should possess.

Tie Xinyuan also saw Bao Zheng. The old official, ever austere, alone among his colleagues rode home in an ox cart while others used carriages. Beneath his umbrella, arms folded around his official tablet, he passed through the bustling market, unmoved by the tide of flattery from the crowd—a familiar sight in Tokyo. Tie Xinyuan always thought that one day, even this old man would lose his composure.

A great snow began to fall, blanketing the world in silver. With all dirt and squalor covered, Tokyo became a fairytale realm. Tie Xinyuan pressed himself against the only small window in his home, gazing out at the beauty beyond.

Now he finally understood what it must have felt like for the Monkey King, trapped beneath Five Elements Mountain for five hundred years—possessing so much skill yet unable to move, what torment it was. There was little difference between them: one trapped by a mountain, the other by a frail body.

As he drifted into reverie before the snow, a small bowl of noodles appeared before him. His mother was busy planning for their livelihood—she had decided to open a noodle shop, otherwise, the two of them would sooner or later go hungry as their resources dwindled. She seemed convinced that since Seventh Brother always praised her noodles, they must be good. She’d even picked a name—Seventh Brother’s Noodle Shop.

His attentive mother had discovered that her son had a discerning palate. Any dish he ate more than two bites of was sure to be delicious. Over the past month, she’d conducted many experiments, and this small bowl of noodles was born of another such idea.

No greens—poor rating! No toppings—poor rating! Too much sesame oil—poor rating! Coarse salt not dissolved—poor rating! Tie Xinyuan grumbled inwardly, but outwardly beamed as he finished the noodles, then turned to play with the little fox.

“Not tasty...” His mother, clearly disappointed, went back to perfecting her shop’s signature dish.

In truth, Tie Xinyuan wanted to tell her that if she was aiming to serve the common people, there was no need for so many refinements. Just bring a bowl of oily noodles to the table—even if the taste was mediocre, as long as the portion and oil were generous, and the pepper sufficient, a steaming hot, spicy bowl of noodles would make anyone forget their troubles. Word would spread, and soon customers would be flocking to her door.

If she topped the noodles with even a thin slice of fatty pork, for the laborers of Tokyo it would be a feast—and soon the shop would be famed as a place of good conscience, deserving of a banner of honor.

It was painful: Tie Xinyuan’s supper was, once again, a failed experiment—noodles in broth. His mother set the bowl on the battered table, sat her son on a little stool, and went back to her work.

There were boiled greens on the table—a luxury in Song Dynasty winter. Thanks to the fox, which brought home anything and everything, royal vegetables now graced the Tie family’s table.

In Tie Xinyuan’s little wooden bowl lay a slice of cured meat, thin as paper, prepared by his mother especially for him. He was only allowed to suck and lick it for the taste—having just four teeth, he couldn’t manage more.

When his mother returned from tidying the stove, she found a very appealing bowl of noodles before her. Bright green cabbage sprawled atop the snowy noodles, a translucent slice of cured meat hiding beneath, and, most unusually, a dash of vinegar perfumed the broth.

No question: her son was playing with his food again.

Such wastefulness was intolerable. Wang Rouhua shot her son a glare—this habit of treating food as a toy could not be indulged. She decided he should go hungry for once.

Seeing his mother wouldn’t serve him another bowl, Tie Xinyuan crawled into the washbasin, pried open the fox’s jaws to check its breath, then pointed at his own mouth.

The fox, thoroughly impatient, scrambled out through the door, returning shortly with a large chunk of cheese in its jaws.

No matter what, Tie Xinyuan would not eat the side the fox had bitten. Cradling the cheese, he slowly sucked and nibbled at it. With such a pace, he would never finish quickly, but he was patient; he was still little, his activity level was high, and if he didn’t eat something caloric, he’d end up stunted, like Wu Dalang.

With new ideas in mind, Wang Rouhua began another round of experiments. That last bowl hadn’t filled her. In the past, she’d have been ashamed to eat so much, but ever since meeting Seventh Brother, the more she ate, the happier he’d be...

Men always have large appetites—a single bowl would never suffice. In winter, there weren’t so many greens for them; pickled vegetables would have to do. As for the meat slices—should she add them or not?

Outside, the snow fell thick and fast. A sliver of orange lamplight from the little house glowed on the white snow, painting it with the faintest blush.

On the city wall, the guards stood beneath their shelter, ever vigilant; now that the emperor had returned to the palace, they dared not relax for a moment.

Snowflakes dusted Yang Huaiyu’s cloak. As the commander of the Imperial City, he dared not slacken his watch either, even on this third patrol of the night.

Snow covered all of Tokyo, but not the city wall. Against this white world, the wall became a black iron line, rendering the Imperial City all the more imposing.

The Tie family’s lamplight shone like a gem on this iron line, gleaming brightly. Each time Yang Huaiyu saw that small house, a nameless anger would rise within him.

He had always acted for the security of the royal family, yet his colleagues now branded him ruthless and bloodthirsty—a source of deep frustration.

But such was the emperor’s prerogative: a single word could raise a man to the highest heaven, or cast him into eternal darkness.

A crooked black figure crept toward the city wall. Yang Huaiyu, seeing it, wasted no time; he seized the Eight-Ox Crossbow from a guard and cocked the lever.

With a sharp crack, the great bolt shot forth, pinning the black figure to the earth without a sound.

The snow continued to fall, and before long, the black form became a white sculpture.