Chapter Eleven: The Ways Love is Remembered

Late spring had arrived, and the pear tree Wang Rouhua had planted before her door defiantly pushed forth new shoots, never ceasing to unfurl branches and leaves. Tie Xinyuan, too, managed to escape the fate of always having his privates grabbed; after noticing those women constantly eyeing his crotch, he decided to bid farewell to open-crotch trousers.

Those rough or gentle hands that seized him were always so violent, as though only such force could convey their affection for the child. There was reason for this: in the city of Dongjing, a mendicant monk from the Western Regions, to demonstrate his devotion to Buddha, stood in the busiest part of Horse Street and pierced his own vitals with a silver knife. Unperturbed, he then strolled around the tile market of Dongjing, bleeding all the while, but maintaining a devout air, chanting scriptures, forming Buddhist seals with his hands, and smiling serenely—the very smile, it was said, that the Buddha wore when preaching.

While passing by the West Water Gate, this monk stopped at Wang Rouhua’s shop for a bowl of sour millet water. Before leaving, he pointed at Tie Xinyuan and smiled, declaring him a blessed child.

When the neighborhood women came to congratulate Wang Rouhua, her expression remained calm. “As long as my child makes something of himself, whatever that monk says is just empty words,” she replied.

All day, Wang Rouhua was absent-minded, serving the wrong dishes to customers several times. Fortunately, they were regulars and did not mind, laughing and accepting her mistakes. Only Tie Xinyuan noticed that, after returning home, his mother did not even count her beloved copper coins, but instead held him and sat gazing out the small window for a long time.

The little fox, for once, didn’t go to the palace but stayed with mother and son, curling up on the bed for a nap. The noises of spring outside echoed in waves, but to Tie Xinyuan, their home felt as cold as midwinter.

Luckily, his mother soon recovered, pulling out the money box to count her coins, easing Tie Xinyuan’s mind—he didn’t like her current demeanor, not at all.

The daily ritual of braising meat arrived. Mother sat by the stove feeding the fire, while the clueless fox gleefully jumped onto the stove, tossing a small linen bundle into the pot before running over to Tie Xinyuan for praise.

Wang Rouhua hurriedly fished out the bundle, sniffed it suspiciously, and, realizing it was a spice packet, turned her questioning gaze to Tie Xinyuan and the little fox.

Seeing her son carefree and tussling with the fox, she gritted her teeth and tossed the bundle back into the pot to continue cooking.

The next day, after serving breakfast to her patrons, Wang Rouhua quickly closed up shop, took Tie Xinyuan and the fox, and boarded a hired ox cart, leaving Dongjing.

Though late spring, many still went out walking, and the carriages for long journeys were adorned with tender willow branches—a heartfelt blessing from friends and family.

Tie Xinyuan disliked leaving the city walls. He felt that venturing out in the Song dynasty was fraught with unpredictable dangers. Not to mention Sun Erniang at the crossroads, who steamed human buns, or the fierce tiger of Jingyang Ridge—none of these were auspicious encounters.

He knew that in the history of this era, rebellion was commonplace. He, a tender morsel, would taste about the same whether steamed or braised.

The ox cart carried many bundles, mostly cloth and grain; it seemed his mother intended to revisit Tie Family Manor, to see if their home still existed.

Not long after leaving the city, the great river appeared before them. The peach blossom flood had not yet subsided, so the waters roared and surged endlessly.

“The river’s changed course,” Wang Rouhua sighed softly.

The old driver responded, “Madam, last year’s flood broke the levee. Even the best boatman on the Yellow River, Yuan Liyu, couldn’t plug the breach. So the officials let the river find its own path, and now it flows here.”

“Do you know where Tie Family Manor used to be?” Wang Rouhua asked.

The old man shook his head. “The river now flows right through where Tie Family Manor used to be. I fear your manor lies beneath the river now.”

Wang Rouhua nodded. “When the flood came, I knew Tie Family Manor wouldn’t survive. Since you’re from Liu Family Camp by the river, do you know if the people from Tie Family Manor went there?”

He shook his head. “You’d need to ask the authorities. Normally, disaster victims from the manor would be conscripted into the regional army. At least, in all my years renting out carts here, I’ve never seen anyone from Tie Family Manor. You two are the first.”

Wang Rouhua’s voice trembled. “Please, take us as close as possible to where Tie Family Manor used to be. We must pay our respects, no matter what.”

The old man sighed and nodded, urging the ox cart upstream along the Yellow River.

Tie Xinyuan studied the river, impressed by the government’s efforts. In just a year, they had mobilized laborers to rebuild the levee along the new course. Though the young willow branches had only begun to sprout, in a few years the levee would become a lush, green haven—Dongjing’s famed landscape of willows and warblers would return.

After traveling more than ten miles, the cart stopped.

Wang Rouhua pointed to a sandbar in the middle of the river. “That old willow tree survived?”

The old man stroked his beard. “I remember that tree stood beside Tie Family Manor’s ancestral hall, didn’t it?”

A blush rose to Wang Rouhua’s cheeks. “Yes, years ago, my child’s father and I paid homage to our ancestors under that willow before marrying.”

The old man was silent for a moment. “Madam, take your time. I’ll water the ox over there. When you’re ready, call me, but don’t tarry too long—the city gates will close soon, and it’s not safe to stay outside overnight.”

He walked away, and Wang Rouhua, holding Tie Xinyuan, got off the cart, strode quickly to the sand, knelt facing the raging river, and cried out, “Seventh Brother—!”

The Yellow River remained as furious as ever, its muddy waters swirling and flooding without mercy, burying Wang Rouhua’s cries beneath its waves.

Tie Xinyuan squatted nearby, watching his mother unload countless offerings and cakes from the cart, finally taking two bowls of soup noodles from a food box and placing them reverently by the river, mumbling words Tie Xinyuan couldn’t understand.

Mother kowtowed, so Tie Xinyuan did too; mother paid her respects, so he followed suit. Only after the incense burned out did she point to the willow in the river’s midst and say, “Our home used to be there.”

Tie Xinyuan could not answer. Today marked the anniversary of his arrival in this world, the day the great flood struck, and his father’s death. He wanted to tell his mother that the saying “thirty years east, thirty years west” referred to this very river. In a few years, when the silt leveled the riverbed, it would change course again—perhaps Tie Family Manor would reappear.

The paper money had burned away, and Wang Rouhua threw all the offerings and cakes into the river, including bundles wrapped in hemp, and even white rice and flour, her manner fierce and wild.

She placed Tie Xinyuan back on the cart, then returned to the riverbank, murmuring unknown words before coming back.

The little fox sniffed around, finally pressing its nose to Wang Rouhua’s arm. Tie Xinyuan then noticed his mother’s arm was bleeding.

The old driver hadn’t gone far; seeing them return, he led the ox up from the levee and, as he yoked the beast, noticed Wang Rouhua’s bleeding arm.

He hesitated. “Young lady, why swear such a heavy oath? The dead are gone—you are still young.”

Wang Rouhua smiled. “This is the only way I can repay my husband’s kindness.”

The old man bowed respectfully, and Wang Rouhua accepted calmly. Tie Xinyuan felt uneasy about it, but seeing his mother’s face radiant with a saintly glow, he muddled along, following the ox cart back to Dongjing.

When the neighborhood chief arrived at their door with officials, Tie Xinyuan finally understood his mother’s intention: she would remain faithful to Tie Ah Qi.

The officials inspected the shocking wound on her arm, then hung a black plaque for a “chaste and virtuous household” above their little door—a sign far larger than the door itself, like a heavy stone weighing down their home.

His mother was not old; Tie Xinyuan guessed she was no more than twenty-five. In later times, many girls at that age had not yet married, but his mother would now embrace this plaque and grow old alone.

He had always thought such things only happened in the strict Confucian eras of Ming and Qing, never expecting it in the comparatively lenient Song dynasty.

The current emperor’s father had married a widow, Liu E, and no one ever complained; Liu E herself ruled the Song dynasty for eight years.

The officials departed, having reported to the guards at the city gate before entering. Above them hung a ready-to-fire eight-ox crossbow; clearly, they did not wish to linger.

Tie Xinyuan, dazed, worried for his mother, but she was more peaceful than ever that night, not even snoring as she usually did.

In the dark room, Tie Xinyuan stared wide-eyed, unable to understand why his mother had chosen such a sudden and brutal way to commemorate her love.

It was all too abrupt, too cruel.